


The Weight of the World on Your Shoulders

by remanth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friendship, M/M, Wedding, matchmaker!Sherlock, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-20 07:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 51,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remanth/pseuds/remanth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock can see that Mycroft is starting to break under the strain of his work and loneliness. His plan? To set up a friendship between his brother and Greg Lestrade and maybe turn it into a relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeliciaHM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeliciaHM/gifts).



> This was written for Felicia HM who gave me the most amazing prompt for this story. The title comes from the song Hey Jude and I thought both line and song were fitting for this story and where it's going. Also, give many, many thanks to mistresskiki who beta'd this monster for me.

Sherlock wasn’t quite sure when he became aware of it. He actually berated himself for not noticing earlier. But then, Mycroft was good at hiding everything he didn’t want others to see. Good enough that most people only saw the calm and pleasant exterior Mycroft wanted them to see. But Sherlock wasn’t most people and he’d grown up with Mycroft. He could see the little tics, the crushing sorrow and loneliness that Mycroft labored under. He could read his older brother better than anyone alive, except for their mother.

Once he was sure there actually was something wrong with Mycroft, he started paying far more attention. The elder Holmes always carried himself as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders but felt more than adequate to the task. Sherlock saw, however, that every time he met with Mycroft, his shoulders were bowed just a tiny bit more. And around the time John came into his life, Sherlock saw shadows in Mycroft’s eyes. He didn’t believe it at first, chalking it up to John’s influence or something like that. Sherlock wasn’t often poetic, unless it came to murder.

Though it grated, Sherlock took more cases from Mycroft in order to see him more often. It took several visits before he believed what he saw, but Sherlock was sure. Whenever he looked at John, there was a... longing, as if wishing for something that wouldn’t come true. And whenever Mycroft looked at Sherlock, a resigned jealousy filled his eyes. Sherlock still wouldn’t put all the pieces together until the first time John was away at a medical conference: Mycroft wanted someone to share his life, much as John shared Sherlock’s. A friend, someone to trust.

Here, Sherlock was out of his depth. He’d never really had a friend before John, had honestly really never saw the need. The closest anyone had come was Greg Lestrade and he was more of a father figure. He was certainly a better one than Sherlock’s actual father had been; Lestrade accepted Sherlock for who he was rather than trying to mold him into a vision of what he thought Sherlock should be. And Lestrade never made Sherlock feel less for being who he was. Then, he remembered John. Wonderful, ordinary, unpredictable John who navigated the waters of sentiment and emotion with an ease that Sherlock could never imagine. John would know. 

“John, do you have a minute?” Sherlock asked one morning. He was draped across the couch in his blue dressing gown, trying to fight away boredom yet again. Their last case had finished up a day ago and neither Lestrade nor Mycroft had another for him yet. It was the perfect time to bring up his theories.

“Sure, Sherlock,” John replied, coming into the living room from the kitchen. He carried two steaming cups of tea and set one down on the coffee table within Sherlock’s reach. Sitting down in his own armchair, John stared at Sherlock with a puzzled look in his eyes. “What is it? And why so polite this time? Not that I’m complaining, mind, but it’s not like you.”

“I need to ask your... advice,” Sherlock mumbled, still annoyed that he had to ask anyone anything. “Politeness usually helps the other person agree. One of the best tools for reluctant people, though I don’t tend to use it often because I don’t have to.”

“Well, that certainly sounds more like you,” John chuckled, taking a sip of his tea. “All right, ask away. What advice could you need from me?”

Sherlock sat up and picked up his tea, breathing in the steaming fumes. It smelled wonderful, as every cup of tea John gave him did. By now, they both knew exactly how the other liked their tea. But Sherlock almost never made it. Why when John’s always tasted so much better? Dismissing that, Sherlock tried to order his thoughts. It wasn’t often he spoke of Mycroft with John. This wasn’t the time for the normal chaotic state in his mind. 

“Something I’ve noticed about Mycroft,” Sherlock began, figuring the beginning was probably best. “He is struggling under the weight of his work. I can see it taking its toll on him. The position Mycroft has put himself in isn’t helping. I think he’ll break under the strain of the sorrow and loneliness.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, the puzzled look back on his face. “Whenever I’ve seen Mycroft, he’s always self-contained and determined. There was nothing to suggest he was struggling.”

Sherlock groaned and jumped up from the couch. He’d forgotten that he was holding the teacup and hot liquid splashed over his fingers. Hissing, Sherlock set the cup down carefully and started to pace the room, stepping up and over the coffee table on each circuit. Sherlock wasn’t surprised John didn’t understand. He often saw and didn’t observe, after all.

“Mycroft knows how to hide what he’s feeling,” Sherlock explained, ruffling a hand through his hair and gripping tightly in annoyance. “It’s difficult to deduce anything about his emotions because he tends to convince himself he doesn’t have them. But he does. And those emotions are what’s going to break him. I need to help him. _We_ need to help him, as I really don’t know much about emotions and relationships.”

“Are you saying that you want to find someone for Mycroft to date?” John snorted, a grin pulling at his lips. But when he saw the determined look on Sherlock’s face, the grin slipped away. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You want to find a date or something for Mycroft.”

“He deserves to be happy,” Sherlock muttered, barely even hearing what he was saying. Then he met John’s eyes and spoke louder. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Mycroft, whether he will admit it or not, needs someone he can trust. Someone like you, John. He needs a friend, at least. And if it turns to more, then it does.”

“All right. I can get behind this, I guess,” John replied, shaking his head. “I just never pictured Mycroft as the friend type. Even less the relationship type. So what kind of woman would be a match for the British Government?”

“Not a woman,” Sherlock said absently, turning the question over in his mind. He turned to look out the window, wondering if the people walking past on the street would give him any inspiration. In doing so, he missed the puzzled then surprised looks that crossed John’s face. It wouldn’t do to introduce an idiot into Mycroft’s life and most of the people in the world were.

“What do you mean, not a woman?” John repeated, wanting to make sure he understood exactly what Sherlock was saying. He could sometimes keep up with the leaps the other man made but not this time. This was important and John felt there was no room for misunderstanding.

“Yes, not a woman,” Sherlock said testily, annoyance flashing at having to repeat himself. “Surely you realize Mycroft is gay, John?”

“Um, no, not really,” John said dryly, sipping at his tea again. “Like I said, never really considered Mycroft the relationship type. So what kind of man, then?”

Sherlock didn’t reply to the question right away. He was lost to memories. Sherlock remembered distinctly when he first deduced Mycroft was gay. He had been ten and often watched Mycroft as they walked to school together. Mycroft hadn’t had many friends, even then, and they both would spend their free time before class studying the other students and making deductions. Sherlock clearly saw the interest and... hunger that was in Mycroft’s eyes whenever he looked at certain boys. It was never directed at any of the girls, even the prettiest. No, that look was reserved for boys who laughed, always confident in themselves even at this tender age. It wasn’t until some of those boys returned the look that Sherlock knew what he was seeing. And, as he was young and still innocent in some ways, he forgave himself the time it took to realize what those looks meant. Knowing that Mycroft was gay changed nothing for him; he was still Sherlock’s older brother, pompous, arrogant, and bullheaded as he could be sometimes. But Sherlock was the same way, often to a fault. The moment he deduced it, Sherlock made one of the last innocent, childhood wishes he would ever make: he wished for Mycroft to be happy with whomever he chose.

Yet, like most childhood wishes, it never came true. There were people in Mycroft’s life, people that Sherlock deduced the barest hints of whenever the elder Holmes would come home from university on holiday. They never lasted long and Sherlock could count how many there were on the fingers of one hand before Mycroft appeared to give up. The elder Holmes closed himself off, raised walls of ice around his heart that no one seemed to be able to penetrate. His oft-repeated mantra of ‘caring is not an advantage’ eventually got on Sherlock’s nerves but he never mentioned it. Mycroft had drawn away even from his family, much as he might still care for them. It could only mean that those few relationships had ended badly, had hurt Mycroft so deeply that he refused to trust again. That was when Sherlock realized the depth of hatred he could have for someone he’d never even met. Before their falling out, before Sherlock tried to go his separate way, he loved his family fiercely. Especially the older brother who’d always protected him from the lion’s share of their father’s manipulation and scorn. Finally, he turned back to John with a thoughtful look on his face.

“Someone confident, competent, and intelligent,” Sherlock said, walking to the couch and flinging himself down onto it. He situated himself on his back, long legs draped over the arm. Steepling his fingers above his lips, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. “Someone not ordinary, not boring. Someone who can stand on his own two feet and meet Mycroft as an equal.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” John snorted quietly. “There’s only a few million men in London. Surely we can find one from among them.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock mumbled, eyes already glazing over as he entered his mind palace. John, knowing the signs very well by this point, just shook his head and pulled his laptop onto his lap. Sherlock could be hours, searching through the mental index he kept. While Sherlock did that, John would search his own way. Between the two of them, he was certain they’d find someone to fit Sherlock’s exacting description. They both searched for about an hour before being interrupted: Sherlock’s phone beeped, the tone he’d set for Lestrade. Another call, another case and the game was on yet again.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft signed his name on the bottom of yet another piece of paper. This one was an order to put a suspected arms dealer under watch. He picked up the paper and dropped it into the box labelled outbox on his desk. The stack there was far smaller than the box labelled inbox. The clock on the mantle over the fireplace started chiming. He counted six without looking up and realized he’d been here in the office for twelve hours. Again. Letting the pen fall from his fingers, Mycroft sat back in his chair and yawned. It had been a long day yet he felt no urge to go home. His quiet, tastefully appointed flat was silent and empty. Mycroft was in no hurry to go back to it.

Stretching his arms slowly above his head and sighing, Mycroft felt his shoulders and his back cracking. Sitting in the same position tended to stiffen his muscles and, every time he surfaced from whatever paperwork he was working on, Mycroft told himself he wasn’t going to let it happen again. But it always did because Mycroft couldn’t really find it in himself to care all that much anymore. It didn’t help that when he was alone, Mycroft would slouch in his chair. His father had always harped on good posture and Mycroft found himself doing the opposite of what his father had always pushed for. He honestly never even thought the man’s name, trying to banish him from his life.

A discreet beep filled the room after the clock had stopped chiming. Mycroft checked his phone to see a text from his assistant Anthea. DI Lestrade had given his brother another case and Sherlock had jumped at it. He texted back an acknowledgement and sighed again. Anthea really was worth her weight in gold; she was the most competent assistant he’d ever had. Yet Greg Lestrade was the one occupying his thoughts and had been ever increasingly lately. _That_ was an exercise in futility. Lestrade was married, even if not completely happily. Mycroft shouldn’t, and wouldn’t, intrude on that.

The first meeting he’d had with the DI was still firmly engraved in his memory. It wasn’t often someone had the strength to stand up to the tactics Mycroft used yet Greg Lestrade had. Remembering brought the first smile to Mycroft’s face for the day. He’d enjoyed that meeting and each subsequent one. Though he’d been careful not to make them too frequent for a few reasons. Why expose himself to a situation that would only hurt him in the long run? And why push a man who was married and arguably not gay? But Mycroft could take a certain comfort and satisfaction from memory, as images rolled through his mind.

_He’d set everything up carefully for this meeting. A bowl of fruit sat in the middle of a small table, glasses and a pitcher of water standing next to it. Two plates with fork, spoon, and knife on a cloth napkin also sat on the table, one in front of Mycroft and one in front of the empty chair across from him. Mycroft himself, in his favorite, impeccably tailored suit, rested in a chair and waited. The leg crossed over his other one jiggled slightly, the only sign of his impatience. Lestrade was late and Mycroft was not used to waiting. Though, the life of a DI often meant unpredictable hours._

_Yet waiting was the only thing Mycroft could do and he would do it. He had suffered through far more embarrassing and annoying things trying to keep his little brother safe. This Greg Lestrade had managed to do what Mycroft had not: save Sherlock from the path he was running heedlessly down. Mycroft still had no idea how Lestrade had managed it and that was part of the point of this meeting. The rest of it, the lion’s share, was to take stock of the man. There was no way Mycroft would allow Sherlock to continue to work with Lestrade if the man wasn’t trustworthy._

_A clatter of footsteps announced the DI’s arrival. Anthea led him into the warehouse, barely looking up from the Blackberry that seemed permanently attached to her hands. Mycroft knew it for the act it was; Anthea never missed anything that happened around her. Then his attention was taken by the tall man walking a few paces behind her. His hair was a deep brown with silver starting to thread through it. At the moment, the man was still too far away to see the color of his eyes but Mycroft could tell they were dark. He walked with his shoulders squared, long and confident paces matching Anthea stride for stride. Mycroft could see the signs of exhaustion much as the man tried to hide them: his shoulders slumped just a bit, he blinked more often than he needed to, and, going by his rumpled clothes, he hadn’t been home in at least two days. Then again, working on a case and not getting sleep for nearly three days would do that to a man._

_When his eyes met Mycroft’s, Mycroft had to hide the involuntary swallow. There was power and authority in those eyes and the knowledge of when to use them. The man had a strong face, one well-suited to the position he held. Mycroft sighed inwardly when he felt interest stirring, an interest that hadn’t bothered him in many years. Since he was at university, really. It was undeniable but a glance at the left hand showed the glimmer of gold. This man was married and it was a pity really. Or not, as Mycroft reminded himself that caring was not an advantage. Perhaps if he repeated it enough times, he’d come to actually believe it._

_“Welcome, Inspector,” Mycroft said smoothly, letting a small smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Please, sit. You look exhausted after your last case. Thank you, Anthea, that will be all.”_

_Anthea barely looked up from her phone, giving Mycroft the barest nod and heading back the way she came. She would wait in the car that had brought the both of them until Mycroft was satisfied with this meeting. Suddenly, he hoped that would take a long time. Something to give him more time to spend with this man, the first one in years that made Mycroft consider breaking the promise he’d made to himself. Even if all he could have was this conversation, as the ring glinted at him almost in accusation._

_“Who are you and what am I doing here?” Lestrade asked sharply, glaring at Mycroft. He didn’t sit, just placed his hands on the back of the chair and rested some of his weight on it. He impressed Mycroft with the display. After all, how many people would stand up to a clearly powerful man in this situation?_

_“My name is Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft replied, reaching for an apple nonchalantly. He picked up his knife and started cutting slices out of the apple. The first he offered to Lestrade. “And you’re here because of a certain young man who helped you solve your case. I have an interest in him.”_

_“Holmes,” Lestrade repeated in a sharp tone, taking the apple slice automatically. He held it in slack fingers, a little bit of the juice dripping down into his palm. “You would be related to Sherlock, then? Are you the reason he got into drugs and won’t go to a shelter? Is he running from you?”_

_Mycroft felt a twinge of satisfaction at the protection evident in Lestrade’s voice. Good, he wasn’t just in it to use Sherlock. Not with the anger he obviously felt towards someone who might have pushed Sherlock into his current path. He chuckled softly, shaking his head as he continued to slice the apple. Half went onto the plate in front of him and half went onto Lestrade’s plate when the man wouldn’t take anymore. He still hadn’t eaten the first slice he was still holding._

_“Yes, I am related to Sherlock, his older brother in fact,” Mycroft answered once the apple was sliced. He set the knife down carefully, stroking his fingers over a cloth napkin to get rid of the juice. A small part of him grinned in dark satisfaction as he watched Lestrade’s eyes trace the movement. “No, I am not the cause of his drug use nor is he running from me. Per se. I merely wish to protect him. What are your intentions regarding my brother, Inspector?”_

_Lestrade continued to glare at Mycroft, trying to figure out whether the man was lying or not. So far, he didn’t think he was but that didn’t mean much. In the course of his career, he’d met people who could lie so well you’d believe them even standing over the corpse of the person they’d just killed. Shifting his gaze down to the slice of apple still in his hand, Lestrade took a bite of out it to stall for more time. It was delicious, sweet and crisp, and one of his favorite types. A quick, questioning glance at Mycroft only got him a shrug of the man’s shoulders._

_“He’s intelligent, one of the most intelligent men I’ve ever seen,” Lestrade replied, finally settling down into the chair. It felt good to sit down and relax a bit. “I have no idea how he knew even half of the things he knew about me, my team, and the victim. But his drug use worries me. I know the signs of a cocaine addict and the way he’s going, he doesn’t have too much longer. So, to make a long story short, I suppose my intentions are to get him off the street and the drugs. Maybe use him on cases once in a while if he agrees.”_

_Mycroft watched Lestrade as he spoke and could only see honesty and sincerity in him. The DI seemed like a good man, one who would not harm his brother. But Mycroft had met people who had pleasant faces and may as well have been the devil incarnate. Had even worked with a few, on occasion. Of course, there was one more test to be sure. He’d save that, though, for a little while. He wanted to enjoy the rest of this meeting. He nodded pleasantly when Lestrade finished speaking, picking up a slice of apple and taking a bite._

_“Are you or your team so incompetent that you need outside help?” he asked casually, wanting to needle Lestrade. Mycroft needed to see what it took to get under the other man’s skin, how he reacted to it. “Surely New Scotland Yard hasn’t lowered their standards that much?”_

_“_ I _am not incompetent,” Lestrade snapped angrily. “Nor is my team. I only accepted Sherlock’s help because he wandered into my crime scene. That was the fourth body I’d found in a month, all with the same MO. I would have taken a pink unicorn’s help to stop more people dying.”_

_“Perhaps you would need a pink unicorn,” Mycroft replied, not bothering to keep the laugh out of his voice. “I’ve looked into your record and, to be honest, I’m surprised you’ve risen as far as you have.”_

_“Look, I don’t need to sit here and be belittled by you,” Lestrade said, reining in his anger. He dropped the unfinished slice of apple on his plate next to the other slices and stood up. “I haven’t been home in nearly three days and I’m sure my family is missing me. Good day, Mr. Holmes.”_

_“Sit, please, Inspector,” Mycroft answered, gesturing towards the chair. “Forgive me, I needed to see how you dealt with that. I’m impressed at how you controlled your anger after that first outburst. And it was because I insulted the people who work with you, wasn’t it?”_

_Lestrade stood where he was, his eyes narrowed as he thought. This Mycroft Holmes reminded him of Sherlock, which shouldn’t be a surprise really. They were related after all. The man sat there, calmly eating his apple and acting as if it really didn’t matter what Lestrade decided to do. Yet, Lestrade could see a tightness in his eyes, tension in his shoulders, that belied the calm Mycroft was trying to project. That was the only thing that convinced him to sit back down. It would seem that Mycroft really did want to protect Sherlock. And Lestrade could deal with anyone that had the same goals towards the man he’d taken a liking to._

_“Let’s get something straight here, Mr. Holmes,” Lestrade said, crossing his arms over his chest as he met Mycroft’s eyes squarely. “No more needling me, trying to start an argument. Leave my people out of this. You’ve brought me to discuss Sherlock, I’m guessing, so let’s keep our conversation to him.”_

_“As you wish,” Mycroft nodded, another smile pulling at his lips. “How do you expect to help Sherlock when I cannot? What have you done?”_

_“Well, I offered him my couch for a few nights. He turned that down,” Lestrade replied dryly, shaking his head. “And I managed to get a few meals into him. He’s skin and bones though I had a hard time getting him to eat anything. I have no idea how to get him to stop using. Maybe if I can get him into rehab or some program.”_

_“That I have tried,” Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock has been in and out of numerous clinics and programs. He merely suffers it until my attention is back on my job then leaves. He sneaks past the doctors and avoids the cameras. I’m not sure what else I can do. Though he seems interested in you. Sherlock doesn’t take an interest in many people.”_

_“Which is why you’re interested in me,” Lestrade said dryly, no hint of question in his voice. Mycroft nodded slightly, impressed. Though, of course, without saying exactly what that interest entailed. “Obviously, trying the same things you have won’t work. Maybe I can keep him interested in cases. We have plenty of cold ones that I’m sure would keep Sherlock occupied. With the cases, he might decide he no longer needs the drugs.”_

_“Perhaps, perhaps,” Mycroft admitted, delicately picking up another slice of apple. He let his fingers almost dance over the plate and against the fruit, showing off. Mycroft was certain Lestrade wouldn’t pick up what he was doing; his version of flirting was different than most people’s. Yet it would seem to work, going by the somewhat interested look as Lestrade’s eyes followed his fingers again. It didn’t hurt to play a little bit. That was as far as Mycroft would take it as the light caught the gold ring on Lestrade’s left hand again. It was time to pull out his last test. Any longer and Mycroft might let himself forget that ring. “I would like to offer to pay you to keep me updated on Sherlock. Any information would be helpful.”_

_“Wait a minute,” Lestrade replied suspiciously, losing the ease he’d had since he sat back down. “Are you offering to pay me to_ spy _on Sherlock? On your own brother?”_

_“Spy is such a harsh word, don’t you think?” Mycroft said lightly, letting his eyes drop to the apple slice in his hands. “I’m merely offering compensation for something you’d already be doing. You may want it. I understand you could use some extra money. Two girls in an expensive school and your lovely home. Plus, Sherlock can be... difficult at times. It’s only fair, isn’t it?”_

_“No, it isn’t fair and I won’t be taking your money,” Lestrade snapped, shaking his head. “Just when I think I have you figured out, Mr. Holmes, you surprise me. I will update you on Sherlock’s progress regarding the drug use and cases. I won’t tell you anything else about his personal life. You can just ask him yourself. I think this meeting has come to an end now. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”_

_Lestrade stood up again and stalked away. His shoulders were just as stiff and set as when he first walked in. Mycroft nodded to himself and let the man go. He had passed the final test and Mycroft knew he could trust Lestrade with his brother. There were not many people he could say that about. Mycroft waited until Lestrade was out of his sight, watching each step and berating himself for it, before pulling out his phone to text Anthea. He waited, eating the rest of his apple slices and the ones he’d put on Lestrade’s plate before her reply came back to him: Lestrade had been taken home. Slowly, Mycroft started cleaning up the scene he had set to meet with the DI. The entire thing had gone better than Mycroft could possibly have hoped for. Now, if he could just erase the sight of eyes so dark they almost seemed black. He had a feeling that was going to be more difficult than anything else about today._

Sighing sadly, Mycroft let the memories drift away. It had been nearly seven years since that meeting, since both his and Sherlock’s life had taken a sharp turn. Though, after all this time, Mycroft believed it had been for the better. And if nearly black eyes still haunted him late at night when he couldn’t sleep, well, no one had to know, did they?

The stack of papers was still waiting for his perusal and signature but Mycroft decided he’d spent enough time in the office for today. There was a new Italian restaurant near his flat that he’d been meaning to try. Tonight seemed like a good night. Perhaps he could distract himself from unattainable people with good food and good wine. A quiet knock on his office door interrupted his thoughts. Mycroft went to the door, using the little peephole to see who was standing outside. Never could be too careful, after all. Recognizing the man on the other side, Mycroft realized his plans had been promptly derailed. There could only be trouble if he was here. Mycroft opened the door and gestured the other man in.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, worried about the possible answer. The man settled in a chair across from Mycroft’s, a worried look on his face. Mycroft slowly sat back down in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him in a reflection of Sherlock.

“Have a bit of a problem with one of my... clients,” the man said, the urge to be circumspect strong even with someone who knew who said clients were. “Have you ever heard of a woman named Irene Adler?”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Greg Lestrade was tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep though he tried to hide it. It had been building for years now, little bit by little bit. He tried to ignore the cause, tried to ignore the little references Sherlock made in cases. Even some of the deductions from the man touched on the cause. It had been seven years since he’d first met Sherlock, though he knew the exhaustion had started before then. Had started not long after he became the head of his division.

_She’s had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married._

_Oh for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up..._

_The rest of her jewelry’s been cleaned, but not her wedding ring. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. So what, or rather who, does she remove her ring for?_

That stuck in his head, no matter how often Greg tried to forget it. He’d noticed how his wife, Anne’s, ring was slowly losing the shine. Yet, when she took it off to put lotion on at night, the inner band was bright and shining. For a long time, Greg had denied anything having to do with anything like that. It made for a stiffer marriage than before but they were still together. And, to be honest, Greg would have dealt with a lot to keep their family together, to give Sophia and Elizabeth a home. Thanks to Sherlock helping with cases, he’d been able to get home more often than before.

But that was something Anne didn’t, or wouldn’t, see. After he’d first mentioned Sherlock all those years ago, first mentioned that he was an addict, Anne had banned any mention of the man in the house. Any cases, anything he said, any way he interacted with Sherlock was something she didn’t want to hear. Greg had tried to explain, tried to show her how he was home so much more with Sherlock helping. But Anne stood firm, glaring at him with a steely gray gaze. She was just as stubborn as he was, something that had drawn Greg to her when they first meant.

Yet it wasn’t completely Anne’s fault, these troubles in their marriage. Greg wanted to be present for the girls, always made sure _somehow_ to be at recitals or games or anything important to them. He had taken another DI under his wing, Iain Dimmock, and was slowly teaching him how to head the division. Dimmock had what it took and could be great at it. And Greg, he knew there’d be time for him and Anne once he retired. It was coming soon, he knew that. He was the only one of his team whose hair had turned nearly completely silver. His reign in New Scotland Yard was almost over, he could feel it.

Now, Greg walked with a small, happy bounce to his step. He’d managed to come home early today; somehow, no one had been killed in London nor been kidnapped in the last few hours. He was free after putting Dimmock in charge until Greg’s shift began again tomorrow. Hoping to surprise Anne, Greg hadn’t called ahead. This was the first time in a long time he’d been able to leave work this early. As he pulled up to his house, he saw Anne through the big bay window in the front. She was wearing his favorite green dress and her hair was pulled back by combs. She was beautiful and Greg felt his breath catch at seeing her.

He let himself into the house quietly, walking towards the sound of her voice. He could hear a familiar voice talking with her, a male voice. As he walked into the living room, he saw their friend Colin sitting on the couch across from the window. He was comfortable, a cup of tea perched on his knee. Colin looked as if he belonged here but lost that when he saw Greg.

“Greg, how are you?” Colin asked, standing up to shake Greg’s hand. He had a slightly false heartiness to his voice, as if he was trying to project happiness at seeing Greg. Anne’s face twisted for just a moment, so quickly that Greg thought he was imagining things. “Just dropped by to say hello to Anne and tell her about the birthday party coming up for Sean. Sophie and Beth are both invited.”

“That sounds great. I’m sure they’ll love it,” Greg said, pulling back his hand and nodding. He stepped up to Anne’s side, slinging a hand around her waist and pressing a kiss to her temple. “Hello, dear. I got some time off today and I wanted to take you to lunch.”

“It’s about time for me to go, then,” Colin said hastily, setting his teacup down on the table. He flicked a glance at Anne, something full of meaning that Greg refused to read into. He just smiled and nodded again. Colin waved goodbye as he walked out, Anne watching him leave. Neither she nor Greg spoke until they saw Colin walking down the street through the bay window. Then, Anne turned and pulled Greg into a hug.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispered into Greg’s ear. “I can’t remember the last time you had the day free. How about we try that Thai place near the river? I’ve heard so many good things about it.”

“Perfect. Are you ready to go now?” Greg asked, squeezing her gently. And if there was a hint of disappointment, annoyance, in Anne’s voice, he firmly ignored that too. This was what he wanted, some time with his wife so he could imagine things were perfectly okay. Anne indulged him, would indulge him when she felt like it. And if she twisted her wedding ring, as if wanting to take it off, she wouldn’t mention it. She knew Greg wouldn’t. They would both continue on as if nothing was happening. Though, she did wonder what put the knowledge in Greg’s eyes. How could he have had an inkling about what she was doing? She’d always been so careful.

Anne was all smiles as she slid into the passenger seat of the car. Greg kept their conversation light and simple: movies coming out soon, the girls, possibly taking a vacation this summer when the girls were done with school. Both skirted the edges of the conversation that should have been had. Neither wanted to be the first to speak, to bring their house of cards tumbling down.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Greg stared down at the file currently spread across his desk. He read through it for what felt like the hundredth time, trying to understand how a man who was supposed to be on a flight that had crashed had ended up in the trunk of a car in London. Sherlock hadn’t been much help past the first time he’d seen the body. Greg hadn’t even been able to get a hold of the man, had heard nothing from him until Christmas. They hadn’t spoken of the case then and Greg didn’t see Sherlock again for seven months. He could only assume that the detective was on a case of some sort, but it was still frustrating.

An imperious sounding knock made Greg look up, squinting as his eyes hurt. He saw that he was the last one left, again. Greg waved in Sherlock and Mycroft, surprised to see both brothers together. He’d seen Mycroft a few times since their first meeting, more often in the beginning as they both tracked Sherlock’s progress in rehabilitation. Greg could still remember the stark fear he’d felt, breaking into the grungy little flat Sherlock had rented about a year after he’d met the man. Sherlock had been sprawled out on the floor, needle still in his arm. If he had come in any later, Sherlock would have died from the overdose. As it was, that was the final thing that convinced Sherlock to give it up.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Greg asked, waving them into his office. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, trying to stop the blurring and the stinging. Though, that’s what he got for staring at the same file for hours on end, Greg supposed. Mycroft settled himself in the chair to Greg’s left, his eyes intently focused on Greg. That look had made Greg uncomfortable at first but he’d gotten used to it. Sherlock threw himself into the other chair, glaring at Mycroft before transferring that glare to Lestrade.

“I see you’re still puzzling over the body in the trunk of the car,” Sherlock said, nodding at the file. “I suppose I’m here to explain what was going on with all of that. And Mycroft’s here because he’s the one behind what was going on with it.”

“You’re telling me Mycroft killed the guy?” Greg said dryly, chuckling quietly and turning to Mycroft. “That is something I can’t really picture you doing. Ruin him, yes. Murder, no. How would the person suffer because of what he did if he was dead?”

“You’ve read me fairly well,” Mycroft replied smoothly, an honest smile tugging at his lips. “I’m surprised at that. Most people who know me assume murder would not be beyond what I’m capable of.”

Sherlock glanced from Mycroft to Lestrade, suspicion on his face before he smoothed it away. That was interesting. There was obviously something between the two of them, more time spent together than Sherlock knew about. He hated not knowing something and resolved to find out what it was as soon as he could.

“So, explain please,” Greg continued, sitting back in his chair and resting his hands over the arms of it. “I’m sick and tired of looking at this file. I hate cold cases.”

“The body was part of an operation I was running with some... allies,” Mycroft explained, omitting as many details as he could. “I don’t know how it went missing though I believe I know _who_ did it. He won’t be troubling anyone else. I’ve kept Sherlock busy with a case and it finally ended not too long ago.”

“So who killed the guy? Is there someone I can arrest or did you take care of him too?” Greg sighed, shaking his head. He gathered up all the papers spread out across his desk and stacked them neatly back in the file. Closing it, Greg looked up to meet Mycroft’s eyes.

“A heart attack killed him,” Mycroft replied dryly. “So if you’d like to arrest his heart, you can. I wouldn’t recommend that as a solid career move though.”

Mycroft and Lestrade continued to talk while Sherlock studied them. They seemed to have an ease of speaking that spoke of familiarity and a touch of comfort. It rather surprised Sherlock to pick up on little cues from Mycroft that he was interested in what Lestrade had to say. He dismissed the idea that Mycroft was interested in Lestrade himself: the other man was married and Mycroft believed that caring was not an advantage. Still, something was not quite right with the whole thing.

Finishing up the conversation took a short amount of time now that the case had been explained to Lestrade’s satisfaction. Sherlock was fidgeting with impatience long before the end of it; he had some experiments to get back to. John had threatened to throw them out if they were still left on the table once he got back from his date. If Sherlock left soon, he would be cutting it close to making it back before John.

“I think we’ve covered everything,” Lestrade said, noting Sherlock’s fidgetiness. He smiled at both Holmes’, an automatic polite smile. “I need to be heading home. Thank you for filling me in about this case.”

“You’re very welcome, Inspector,” Mycroft replied, standing smoothly and nodding. He ignored the glance Sherlock gave him at the formality. “Have a good evening.”

Sherlock jumped up out of his chair and led the way to the door, walking through without waiting for Mycroft. He had quite a few things on his mind, not least of all was Mycroft himself. The elder Holmes had lost a bit of the sorrow, the pressure while talking with Lestrade. It just underscored Sherlock’s deduction that Mycroft needed a friend, if not a lover. That Lestrade might be what he was looking for never even crossed Sherlock’s mind. Turning just enough to watch Mycroft walk through the door, Sherlock saw his brother’s shoulders slump just slightly and a hitch enter his stride. It frustrated Sherlock that he really didn’t know what to do just yet. But there was someone who might, someone who knew both of them better than they did.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

“Why, Sherlock dear, this is a surprise,” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed as she opened her front door. “Come in, come in. I was just sitting down to some tea.”

“Hello Mummy,” Sherlock said as he stepped into the house. He hung his coat up on the coatrack in the entryway, draping his blue scarf over the top of it. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going today, mostly because he didn’t want to get talked out of it by Mycroft. Following his mother into the living room, Sherlock settled down into a chair and started pouring tea.

“You’re rather quiet, dear,” Mrs. Holmes said curiously, sitting in her chair and studying Sherlock. She could see that he’d actually gained a few pounds and seemed to be much healthier than the last time she’d seen him. John was a good influence on him. “I wish you had brought your friend, John Watson, along. He seems to be a lovely man, from what I’ve heard about him. I’d like to meet him.”

“Maybe next time,” Sherlock muttered, trying to figure out exactly how to word what he wanted to say. It was so much more important to get it right now. His mother would take far more convincing than John had even though she loved both her children deeply. But Sherlock knew that his mother never made a decision or took an action unless she knew exactly what the consequences might be.

“Of course,” Mrs. Holmes nodded soothingly, wondering exactly how Sherlock felt about John. And vice versa. It was wonderful her youngest had a friend, someone who cared about him and didn’t consider him a freak. Mycroft had kept her apprised of Sherlock’s work on the cases and a little digging had given her all the information she could have wanted about how the others treated Sherlock. She picked up a biscuit and took a bite, savoring it before continuing. “Is there something wrong, Sherlock? You look... concerned.”

“I am concerned, Mummy. About Mycroft,” Sherlock started, picking up a biscuit and turning it over and over in his hands. It was his favorite but Sherlock was too preoccupied to eat it. “He’s... breaking. It’s the only word I can think of. He’s lonely and sad and I think it’s wearing him down. If I can see it as clearly as I can, it won’t be too long before others can too. And he might shatter.”

“I see,” Mrs. Holmes said slowly. It was something she’d noticed herself, the few times she’d spoken with Mycroft in the last few months. As their contact was mainly by phone, it had taken her longer than she liked to catch on to it. “I assume you have a plan, as you’ve come to me rather than your brother.”

“More like a plan to form the plan,” Sherlock admitted, shaking his head ruefully. It wasn’t often he ran around without at least a rudimentary plan. “I wanted to talk with you and see what you might suggest. Perhaps if you visited Mycroft, stayed with him for a while, he would feel less lonely?”

Mrs. Holmes chuckled at that suggestion. Mycroft was headstrong, it ran in the family, and her and her eldest living in the same space for any significant length of time would lead to possibly world-shattering arguments. That was not the best idea. She didn’t really want to step into the middle of this and take over from Sherlock. It was nice to see her youngest worrying over his brother. Yet there was another way and her lips curled in a satisfied smile as she thought of it. DI Greg Lestrade might be exactly what her eldest needed.

Of course, she knew everything she could about the DI. When Sherlock had involved himself in the man’s cases, Mrs. Holmes had had him inspected. Greg Lestrade was a good, solid, trustworthy man dedicated to his family and his work. While his marriage may be rocky, and here Mrs. Holmes let a small sneer cross her face at the thought of Anne Lestrade, but he did everything he could to keep his family together. He would do for a friend for Mycroft. However, if certain things happened and certain people made their decisions, perhaps he could become more. And Mrs. Holmes knew the way to suggest it to Sherlock without appearing to suggest it. Her youngest was wonderfully intelligent and could make links between two seemingly unrelated things. He’d be able to put together what she wanted him to.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Mrs. Holmes said gently, delicately picking up another biscuit. She ate it slowly, watching as Sherlock mimicked her, finally eating his own biscuit. “I may visit both of you for a few days but actually living with Mycroft is out of the question. But I know you’ll think of something. You always do, my dearest.”

“Yes, I will,” Sherlock said decisively, if a bit distractedly. He was turning over other ideas in his mind, trying to find the best plan. Or the best person he could shove into Mycroft’s path. “It will just take time.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Holmes replied, shifting in her seat and drawing Sherlock’s attention slightly. She needed him to be thinking about their conversation but not be too focused on it while she delivered her next few sentences. “But let’s talk about you for a little bit, Sherlock. I understand you’ve been solving cases with your friend and a DI Lestrade, was it? How have you been enjoying that?”

“It’s been fascinating,” Sherlock replied. He spun out several stories of running through London, chasing murderers and kidnappers and thieves. John featured heavily in many of the stories, even if Sherlock himself didn’t really notice. Mrs. Holmes watched him carefully and saw the glint in Sherlock’s eyes that told her he was making connections in his mind. She smiled again, immensely satisfied with herself. Everything would be all right now, now that Sherlock’s brilliant mind was working on a plan with the extra pieces she’d given him.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days after the conversation with his mother, Sherlock sat in his customary blue dressing gown and desultorily arguing with John. To be honest, Sherlock’s side of the argument was disapproving grunts and shakes of his head rather than actual words. John kept up a running commentary, staring back and forth from Sherlock to the laptop in his lap. They’d been discussing possible people that might be fitting to introduce to Mycroft.

“Well, what about this guy?” John asked, scrolling down the screen. “He’s a research scientist at Cambridge. Enjoys polo, intelligent discussion, and noir films. Not bad-looking, either, for a bloke.”

Sherlock took one glance at the picture provided on the man’s profile. He was handsome, a classically strong face with bright, domineering brown eyes. He had light brown hair, cut long to wave over his ears and skim the tops of his shoulders. Most men wouldn’t have been able to pull of that style, but he managed it. Yet there was a sneer hovering on his lips, a cruel light in his eyes that Sherlock didn’t trust at all.

“No, not him,” Sherlock disagreed, shaking his head. “He’s controlling and mean. I doubt he and Mycroft would get along at all. Why are you even looking on a dating site at all? What makes you think you’ll find an adequate person on there?”

“Because it’s better than stopping random people on the street and asking them personal questions,” John replied, slamming his laptop closed angrily. “Sherlock, we’ve been at this for an hour and a half now. I’ve gone through nearly every man around Mycroft’s age on this site. You’ve shot down every single one. So, tell me, please, what do _you_ plan to do?”

Sherlock just shook his head again, eyes glazed over as he thought. He had his fingers steepled in front of his lips again and tapped his bottom lip slowly. There was something.... something just at the edge of his thoughts. It hovered there, teasing and taunting him. Sherlock knew it was the answer to what he was looking for but he couldn’t quite tempt it out. But something made him think of tea with his mother. Was it something she’d said? He wasn’t even aware of John getting up and throwing on his coat. The shorter man was very familiar with the look on Sherlock’s face: the detective had retreated into his own little world to work through the problem. It wasn’t all that big a deal anyways. John had made plans earlier in the week to head to the pub with Greg. It was nice to spend time with people who weren’t as brilliantly smart as Sherlock sometimes. John didn’t feel quite so slow in those moments. Closing the door quietly, John waved cheerily at Mrs. Hudson when she peeked her head out of her door. Sherlock would never even know he was gone.

Sherlock let his mind wander a little bit as he waited for the thought to crystallize. He knew several people though none closer than an acquaintance. There had to be someone out there that he himself could deal with that would be a good match for Mycroft. Idly, Sherlock replayed the conversation he’d had with his mother. Some part of him hadn’t believed she would have agreed to his suggestion. The cases he’d spoken about had been some of his favorite over the past few months though Sherlock had left out any mention of Irene Adler. There was no need to discuss her. Lestrade definitely found him some interesting..... wait.

Suddenly, Sherlock sat up and his mouth fell open in shock. Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? Lestrade would be perfect, someone who could stand up to Mycroft while being interesting enough for Mycroft. But that would mean the man who gave him such interesting cases would be spending time with Sherlock’s older brother, someone he’d been trying to avoid since he left university. Mycroft was so invested in protecting Sherlock that Sherlock felt like he was being wrapped up and smothered in wool. Could he handle Lestrade and Mycroft together? Did he really want to?

An image of Mycroft from a few days ago flashed into Sherlock’s mind. The elder Holmes’ shoulders were even more bowed, even that John could see it and remark on it. There were dark rings around Mycroft’s eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping very well for days. His suit was still impeccable but the colors were muted. In short, Mycroft seemed to be reaching the end of the strength he had. Sherlock wasn’t sure what would happen once Mycroft snapped but knew it wouldn’t be good. Especially with the power and influence Mycroft wielded. Even if he just disappeared, whole sections of the government could, and most likely would, erupt in chaos.

Much as they might argue, much as they might push and prod and bark at each other, Sherlock really did care about Mycroft. And, the more he thought about it, the more Lestrade and Mycroft together became interesting. After all, the man who provided many of his puzzles allied with the man who provided other interesting, and often classified, puzzles? With both trying to protect him, though Sherlock didn’t need as much of that with John around? This could be better; with Lestrade to distract Mycroft, he wouldn’t hound after Sherlock as much. Again, it was perfect.

Sherlock groped after his phone, wondering where it had got to now. He’d already seen that John wasn’t in the room, in that split second before his mind worked through the epiphany he’d just had. The phone had fallen off his chest and into the cushions of the couch. After digging for a few moments, Sherlock pulled it out and just stared at it. Now he just needed a pretext of some sort to get Mycroft and Lestrade in the same room together. Knowing that they met to discuss him was just one step. The next would be a reasonable excuse for them to meet and spend time with each other. Then it came to him. John. John who was at this very moment with Lestrade. Sherlock remembered, distantly, that John had mentioned he was heading out to the pub tonight. And there was no better time to put his plan into action.

John, I have the perfect person. - SH

That so? Who? And do I need to come back? The game just started and Greg and I are watching it. - JW

No, don’t come back. You’re in the best position to begin my plan. - SH

Great, Sherlock, really. Care to explain what this plan is? Who are you thinking is perfect? - JW

Lestrade. He’s someone Mycroft already knows. All I need you to do is convince Lestrade to meet with Mycroft. - SH

Oh just convince him, huh? How do you expect me to do that? And you know, Lestrade isn’t a bad idea. But you know he’s married, right Sherlock? And straight? I don’t think he and Mycroft will be anything more than friends. - JW

That’s more than Mycroft has right now. You’re the one with the people skills, John. Figure something out. - SH

Thanks, you bloody madman. If I didn’t think this was a good idea, I would not be willing to do this. Fine, fine. I’ll think of something. Got to go, Greg’s getting suspicious of why I’m texting so much. - JW

Sherlock dropped his phone onto the coffee table, wondering how long it might take John to convince Lestrade. The DI could be stubborn when he wanted to be, though Sherlock knew what to say most of the time to make him bend. Impatiently, Sherlock jumped up and paced the living room. This time, he stayed off the furniture, not wanting to devote enough thought to stepping up and over it. Finally, he picked up his violin and started composing, something quick and choppy. It resembled the spiky feeling in his chest, the impatience worming its way through his gut. Sherlock managed to lose himself in the music enough that he was somewhat surprised when John walked in yawning.

“It’s late, Sherlock, you should stop playing,” John chided gently, hanging his coat on the coatrack. “Don’t want the neighbors to call in a noise complaint. Though, if they didn’t when you shot the wall, they might not now.”

“So? What did you come up with? What did Lestrade say?” Sherlock asked, setting his violin down carefully. There was an air of satisfaction around John that told Sherlock John had been successful. But he wanted _details_.

“Give me a minute,” John replied, stifling a yawn behind his hand. Before Sherlock could say anything, John headed upstairs. There were footsteps and a shuffling sound before John came back down wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants. He didn’t say a word until he was sitting in his armchair and Sherlock was in his after John stared at it meaningfully.

“All right, you’ve had your minute and I’m sitting,” Sherlock grumbled, pulling his knees up to his chest. “What happened, John?”

“Well, I told Greg the truth,” John started, grinning as Sherlock let out a sound that was suspiciously like a squeak. “Truth is, Greg’s been feeling a bit lonely himself. He mentioned, before you texted me, that Anne’s been pulling away from him. He tries but he said he wanted someone to talk to outside the circle of his and his wife’s friends.”

“That sounds like a good start,” Sherlock said slowly. He knew exactly why Lestrade’s wife was “pulling away” as John said. She was cheating on Lestrade and had been for a while. Though he’d never met the woman, little things that Lestrade mentioned or how he reacted to certain deductions told Sherlock the truth. “Go on.”

“You know Greg’s met Mycroft before. Apparently, they worked together a few years ago when you were still taking drugs,” John continued, wariness in his voice as he mentioned the drugs. He knew how addictive a personality Sherlock had, knew the times he’d had to search the flat to make sure Sherlock stayed clean. “Greg liked him, once Mycroft stopped acting the pompous king of all. I just explained your deductions, the ones about Mycroft being lonely too, and Greg decided to go along with it.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock grinned, his face taking on a boyish cast. “As long as he doesn’t tell Mycroft about our part in it right away. If he does, Mycroft will dig in his heels.”

“Yeah I don’t think Greg will,” John laughed, shaking his head and hiding a yawn again. “Sherlock, this is about all we can do tonight. I’m going to bed. Greg will keep me updated on what happens so try to be patient with this.”

“I can be patient,” Sherlock grumbled, not watching as John stood up and headed up the stairs to his bedroom. Though Sherlock had to admit, in his own head where John couldn’t hear, patience was annoying. He liked seeing results unless it was one of his experiments. For an experiment, Sherlock could have infinite patience and the gentlest hands. So, he would just consider this an experiment. Could he convince Mycroft to keep a friend before his brother caught on to what he was doing? Sherlock wasn’t often able to pull one over on Mycroft, often taking the cases his brother gave him because they were so fascinating, but this one he thought he could do. Anyways, Lestrade would need some help, wouldn’t he? Surely Sherlock knew Mycroft better than he did. If Lestrade came across any problems, Sherlock could help smooth the way or even divert his brother completely from figuring out what was going on. Once Mycroft had grown accustomed to something, he was loath to give it up.

But Sherlock couldn’t help sending out one more text that night. He kept it simple, trying to keep his ultimate goal completely secret. He’d seen the same in Lestrade, now that he thought about it, that same crushing weight that bowed the DI’s shoulders. Mycroft had wanted a family when he was younger. While the elder Holmes claimed that he preferred the aloofness that came from being solitary, perhaps that desire was still there. And Lestrade deserved better than his wife, much as Sherlock’s lip curled up in amusement at the thought. Maybe he should perform an experiment on himself, see how different he was. It was amazing how much Sherlock had changed since John had come into his life. Before that, Sherlock would never have cared about how Mycroft or Lestrade felt. 

Sherlock decided to sleep that night, confident that his plans were well under way. He could use the extra energy over the next several days, especially if he needed to step in between Mycroft and Lestrade. Already, he could feel the warmth, the tingle that came when he solved a case. Or had just injected the cocaine. It was so addicting, so thrilling. There was something about pulling all the pieces of a puzzle together, the jolt when the last one finally slotted into place. While Sherlock complained about not getting interesting enough cases from Lestrade, truth was he would take just about anything for that high. Slowly, John had insinuated himself into it. The praise, the obvious fascination, the pride that shone in his eyes when Sherlock deduced something. That feeling was going to build the longer this dance went on. But that meant that the eventual release would be all the sweeter.

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------


	2. Chapter 2

“This is crazy. _I’m_ crazy,” Greg muttered to himself, staring up at the imposing facade of the Diogenes Club. This was where Mycroft was to be found most of the time; he kept an office inside. Greg had never been inside as he wasn’t in quite the right circles to make use of the place. He fingered the card in his pocket, index finger sliding over the engraved name: Mycroft Holmes. That’s all there was on the card, Mycroft’s name in elegant black calligraphy. That card was Greg’s pass into the building, the way he would get past the butlers (he supposed they were called) and into Mycroft’s office. He’d written his name on the back in a much less elegant hand. There wasn’t much call for perfect writing as a DI. Usually, if you could read it, that was good enough for reports.

“Enough standing around out here,” Greg continued speaking to himself, earning a strange look from a harried-looking woman walking past him. Greg ignored her, took a deep breath, and walked up the stairs. He opened the door and slipped inside, pulling out the card to hand to one of the black-liveried men standing inside. The man glanced at the name and nodded, indicating with gestures for Greg to wait. Sighing softly, Greg stepped to the wall and fought the urge to lean against it. The other butler (or whatever he was) stood straight as a pole, his shoulders squared and arms relaxed. He watched Greg as if to make sure he wouldn’t walk off with one of the vases or something. It was difficult not to let it get to him; Greg wasn’t often on the receiving end of that look.

After a few minutes, the first man came back and gestured for Greg to follow him. Greg did so, happy to be away from the gaze of the second man. He kept silent during the walk, noting that there was an almost sepulchral hush to the place. Maybe the men who came here liked things to be completely silent. To be honest, it set Greg’s nerves on edge. It felt like the hush before all hell broke loose. Their footsteps made almost no sound against the gleaming marble floor. The butler’s shoes were swathed in cloth, similar to the booties Greg’s team wore at crime scenes. And Greg’s shoes were his most comfortable pair, well broken it, and bought specifically so that he could walk quietly in them. It wouldn’t do for his footsteps to be heard if he was sneaking up on a suspect.

While he walked, Greg considered the conversation he’d had with John a couple days ago again. He’d suspected something was wrong when John got a text and hunched over his phone as if he didn’t want anyone to see it. After a few quick texts, John had looked at him like there was nothing wrong. But Greg could see a bright, satisfied glitter in the other man’s eyes. He’d spent way too long as a DI to not pick up on body language clues like that. But Sherlock’s suggestion, relayed through John, was something Greg would never have believed if he hadn’t heard it with his own ears. He’d even made John show him the texts, just to make sure the doctor wasn’t having a laugh at his expense. Though John had been oddly reluctant to let Greg see his phone at all. He’d kept it in his hand, picking and choosing the texts for Greg to read as if there was something there that John was embarrassed about. Shrugging inwardly, Greg let that thought go. it didn’t really matter what the rest of the texts said. Chances were they weren’t about this insane idea anyway.

Become Mycroft Holmes’ friend. Break through the impenetrable shield the man surrounded himself with, the air of aloofness and total confidence and competence. It seemed nearly impossible, like walking to the moon. Sometimes, Mycroft could make the moon seem warm and welcoming. Greg wasn’t even sure why he agreed to Sherlock’s plan, other than the reason he’d given John. While it was true he wanted some friends outside of his and his wife’s circle, that was really just an excuse. He supposed the loneliness he’d mentioned in passing was the true reason he agreed. Greg was sick of feeling like he was the only one truly and completely committed to his marriage anymore. It would be nice to have a friend who had nothing to do with it and nothing to lose or gain from the whole situation.

While he’d been thinking, Greg’s feet still carried him after the man leading the way to Mycroft’s office. With a start, Greg pulled himself out of his thoughts and stared at a heavy-looking wooden door when they stopped. The butler gave him a sort of half bow then walked away, his bootie-covered feet making no more noise than before. Greg sighed again and straightened his shoulders. He didn’t bother knocking, figuring Mycroft already knew he was coming. Pushing the door open, Greg slipped inside then shut it behind him. He turned to see Mycroft watching him with an interested look on his face.

“Please sit, Inspector,” Mycroft said, nodding at the chairs in front of his desk. The desk was made of the same dark wood as the door and was carved with vines on the legs. Stacks of paperwork sat on the desk and Mycroft held a pen negligently in one hand. There was a formal frostiness to his voice though Greg didn’t let that deter him. He’d heard that tone too many times now to be annoyed by it.

“Thank you,” Greg replied, choosing one of the chairs and easing himself down. The light brown leather cradled him, forming to his body as if the chair had been made specifically for him. It was amazingly comfortable and Greg supposed that’s what having money could do for you. “I’m sorry to bother you with no warning.”

“It’s quite all right. I’m just curious as to why you are here. Is there something wrong with Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, voice turning sharp and suspicious with the last sentence. He’d heard nothing from the agents he’d set to keep an eye on his brother.

“No, no, I’m not here about Sherlock,” Greg replied hastily, shaking his head. _Well, not mostly_ Greg thought to himself. “I’m here about... well about you I suppose.”

“Me,” Mycroft repeated flatly, tilting his head slightly and narrowing his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Me and you. I mean, we’ve been meeting for seven years now, even if its not that often. All we ever talk about is Sherlock. Don’t you ever get bored of that? Maybe be friends instead of two guys basically babysitting another guy?” Greg expanded, waving his hands around as he spoke. It was a habit he’d tried to break in the past and had mostly managed. Though, when he was emphasizing something or trying to convince someone of something, he tended to fall back on it. He fell silent as Mycroft continued to stare at him, eyes still narrowed and head tilted thoughtfully.

Mycroft, on his part, wasn’t sure he was hearing what he was hearing. This just seemed so strange and unexpected yet something he’d wanted to happen. Not that he believed it ever would, of course. It was just nice to think about when he had an idle moment and nothing to occupy his attention. Eyes flicking over Greg, Mycroft tried to figure out if there was an ulterior motive to this conversation. But Greg sat comfortably, arms uncrossed and leaning forward just a little in his chair. His eyes met Mycroft’s calmly and his voice was steady. Every sign said Greg was being honest and open about them becoming friends. Could they actually become friends? Or would that just needle him, being so close to someone he was attracted to and unable to touch? Mycroft wasn’t afraid of very many things and considered himself fairly strong. This was something he wanted and he grabbed for it with both hands.

“It has crossed my mind a few times,” Mycroft admitted, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Yet we are both busy men and Sherlock seemed to be the only commonality we shared. What made you decide we should become friends?”

“Can I be completely honest?” Greg asked after a few moments’ thought. Something told him he could trust Mycroft. After all, the man wouldn’t have the influence he obviously had, and constantly denied, if he wasn’t able to keep a secret. At Mycroft’s nod, Greg continued, “I think I just needed to get out of my... life, I guess, my head. Anne does her own thing and I have work so we don’t see each other as often as I’d like. I just needed a friend. It gets lonely, you know?”

“I do, all too well,” Mycroft replied softly. His voice lost the chilly formality with the words. “Having friends does not go well at all with my position. Humble as it may be.”

Mycroft smiled widely at that and felt a small thrill when Greg smiled back. The man had a beautiful smile, warm and welcoming. Perhaps, just this once, work and his past wouldn’t interfere with a friendship that Mycroft knew he desperately needed. It had been harder to hide the loneliness, the weight that felt like it was crushing him. Even if Greg never became more than a friend, it would be a relationship Mycroft would cherish. No matter how many times he repeated to himself that caring was not an advantage, he still didn’t believe it.

“So, where do you want to start with this?” Greg asked. “Usually, I go out for a pint with friends or to a game.”

“How about we start with a drink?” Mycroft offered. “I have some more work that needs to be done but I can meet you about... six? There’s a pub that I sometimes visit near my flat.”

“Sure, that sounds like a plan,” Greg replied, surprised that this whole thing had gone over so well. He’d expected more... well, coldness and distance from Mycroft. Maybe Sherlock was right in how lonely Mycroft was. Perhaps the detective had no idea exactly how right he was. “Just give me the address.”

Mycroft wrote down the address and handed the paper to Greg. After folding it and slipping it into his pocket, Greg stood up and held out a hand to Mycroft. After a slight hesitation, Mycroft stood and took Greg’s hand. They shook and Greg nodded a goodbye. He showed himself out of Mycroft’s office, following the path he’d automatically memorized back to the front door. The hush still got on his nerves but it was barely noticeable. Once outside, Greg whistled happily to himself as he headed home. This could be fun.

After Greg left, Mycroft sat back down slowly and stared at his hand. He fancied he could still feel the warmth of the other man’s palm, solid against his own. Greg grip was firm but not overly so, the mark of a confident man who had no need to prove himself against the strength of others. Mycroft admired that quality in him, especially when most people tried to prove themselves his equal and tended to fail. Mycroft was fairly sure Greg wouldn’t fail because he knew his own strengths and wouldn’t try to measure up to Mycroft’s. This was going to be interesting.

\----------------------------------------------------------------

That first night at the pub was awkward as Greg and Mycroft tried to get a handle on each other. Talk skittered from one topic to another, never lingering too long on things that either found uninteresting or uncomfortable. It was definitely one of the strangest conversations Greg had ever had, moving from traffic (horrible) to the economy (eh) to what the weather in the summer might be (warm-ish) to the meaning behind song lyrics (too philosophical with a couple pints each). Greg or Mycroft was always talking, keeping some part of the conversation going. And even though a game was on, Greg ignored it completely for the sake of the man sitting next to him at the bar. Their strange conversation was just too fascinating.

They discovered that they shared a love of jazz, though Greg liked different artists than Mycroft did. That sparked a half hour long debate on the merits of trumpet versus saxophone, who was a better singer, who was a better player, and who the greatest was. That segued into classical music, something Mycroft enjoyed that Greg wasn’t fond of. Which of course led in turn to learning that each could play an instrument: Mycroft the piano and Greg the guitar. That led to a promise from each to hear the other play and talk of favorite songs and artists.

As the night wore on, they grew less and less awkward. Greg was surprised at how human Mycroft could be, once he didn’t need to put up a front. And Mycroft was shocked at how normal, how _right_ it felt to sit here laughing and sharing stories with Greg. He had to remind himself several times that Greg was married and straight and in no way interested in being more than friends. Mycroft thought that if their friendship continued like this, he could be okay with just being friends.

They were the last patrons to leave the pub, stumbling slightly as they walked out the door. The bartender gave them a fond smile, wondering how long it would be before the two men started dating. Of course, she knew nothing of their personal lives but they seemed so perfect together. Mycroft suggested they meet up another night, sometime when they both had another day off. Greg nodded, blinking bleary eyes. They decided to come back to the pub next week and found taxis to take them to their respective homes. 

Greg had told Anne that he was meeting a friend so wasn’t surprised when she was sound asleep in their bed. A strange scent lingered in the air of the bedroom and Greg puzzled over it while he changed. It wasn’t a cologne he wore nor a perfume he recognized from Anne. It continued to bother him as he slid into the bed, careful to not wake Anne. As he put his arm around her, Greg had one last thought before sleep claimed him. _Colin_. Though where it had come from, he completely forgot when he woke the next morning.

Mycroft hadn’t drunk as much as Greg so wasn’t nearly as inebriated. He walked into his cold and empty flat, still smiling from the conversation. Already deciding to give up on believing that caring wasn’t an advantage, Mycroft changed quickly for bed. He still wore the smile as he slid between the sheets. It felt good on his face if a little strange. And if his thoughts drifted towards a certain silver-haired DI as he fell asleep with one arm flung over the empty space in his bed, well Mycroft could excuse it. It was his own mind after all. He could have flights of fancy if he wanted to.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later, after two more nights out with Mycroft, Greg met John again at the same pub John had broached the plan in. Greg was staring into his pint thoughtfully, remembering the night before. He and Mycroft had decided to forgo the pub and get something to eat instead. They’d gone to some sort of fair that had drawn their attention as they walked. Greg had gotten fish and chips from a cart and Mycroft had gotten chicken kebabs. Music drew them to the other end of the street the fair had taken up and they spent an hour listening to a small band playing old music. It had taken on the feel of a date, even though Greg knew that wasn’t what they were doing. The thing that troubled him most was how okay he was with it all. He didn’t even notice that he was playing with his fingers, touching his thumb to the tip of each one.

“Oi, Greg, you listening?” John’s voice broke through Greg’s reverie, a chiding note in his laughter. “You look like you’re a million miles away.”

“Sorry John, just thinking,” Greg replied ruefully, shaking his head before taking a drink from his pint. “What did you say?”

“I was just complaining about Sherlock interrupting another of my dates,” John said sardonically. He grimaced but the grin just after made Greg think he wasn’t too upset. “I swear, I haven’t had a complete date since I’ve met the bloody madman. I wonder sometimes if I just shouldn’t give up. After all, it's not fair to her or me if we keep getting interrupted.”

“He really does that? Every single one?” Greg asked, laughing. “That’s tough, John. Why does he do it?”

“Well, this last time, he texted me to come back to the flat for an emergency,” John explained, shrugging. “And when I got there, he asked me for a pen. A pen! The bloody thing was right there on the coffee table next to him but he couldn’t be bothered to move. Told me moving would disrupt his thinking.”

“That certainly sounds like Sherlock,” Greg replied, still chuckling. “He’s one of the most arrogant men I know. Trouble is, he never learns humility because he can back up that arrogance with his intelligence.”

“True, very true,” John agreed. “But really, what would the world be like if Sherlock wasn’t the way he was? I would be a lot more bored than I am.”

“So you really going to give up dating?” Greg asked curiously. “Won’t you get lonely? I mean, you’ll have friends of course, but they mostly seem to consist of me and Sherlock right now.”

“I’ve got a few other friends,” John murmured absently, chewing over the question. “And yeah, I think I am. My life is very full and its good. Sherlock is one of the best friends I’ve ever had. But enough about me. How about you? How’s it going with our plan? Mycroft shoot you down or what?”

“No, he didn’t shoot me down,” Greg answered thoughtfully. “He seemed... surprised and happy about it. I think you guys were right, he really needed a friend. It’s been fun, actually. I’ve learned that we do have more things in common than just Sherlock. It gives us something to talk about. Did you know Mycroft can play the piano?”

“No, I didn’t, though I can see it. Sherlock plays the violin. I’d imagine they both were encouraged to learn an instrument when they were younger,” John replied, finishing his pint and signalling for another. “What kind of music does he play?”

“Jazz and classical mainly. Though I’ve heard him humming along with some rock songs that the pub plays,” Greg chuckled, remembering how Mycroft had fallen silent once he’d pointed it out. “I think rock is his guilty pleasure.”

“That’s certainly new. Mycroft and rock don’t seem to go together,” John laughed, taking a drink when the bartender set his pint in front of him. “I’m glad that its going well though. From the little hints Sherlock has dropped, Mycroft can be even more of an annoying dick than Sherlock can be.”

“Maybe,” Greg muttered, staring back into his pint. “I think he just needs to feel as if something is worth his time. For whatever reason, Mycroft’s decided I’m worth his time.”

“And there you go staring into your glass as if every answer in the universe is at the bottom,” John laughed, nudging Greg with his shoulder. “Come on, tell me. What’s got you so preoccupied?”

“Nothing... just... nothing,” Greg replied hesitantly, dragging his eyes back up. He glanced at the tv, seeing the game come on. “Look, its starting. Who do you think is going to win tonight?”

John let the question drop, knowing by now that Greg wasn’t going to answer him. He had a fairly good idea anyway of what was bugging the other man. It was a side effect of living with Sherlock Holmes and working with him on cases. John had picked up a few of the man’s methods. And Greg, Greg seemed to be in denial about something. Something to do with Mycroft as John was fairly certain Greg would have talked about just about anything else. The rest of their conversation that night was about the game. Pushing Greg would probably have the opposite effect of what John wanted.

When John got back to the flat, he saw Sherlock standing in front of the window composing. Gentle chords came from the violin, something soft and almost loving. John stood in the doorway silently for a few moments, listening to Sherlock play. He’d caught a few notes of this piece before and it was beautiful. Yet every time he asked Sherlock what it was or to play more of it, the detective refused and didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. During a pause that Sherlock used to write on the music sheet on the stand next to him, John cleared his throat.

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed, turning and stepping towards him, incidentally putting his body between the stand and John. “What did Lestrade say? How is Mycroft reacting to the plan?”

“Greg said everything seems to be going well,” John replied, hanging his coat on the coatrack. He sat down in his armchair, not even bothering to make tea. It was late and John was far too tired, even for tea. “Mycroft doesn’t have a clue we’re behind this. Though Greg was acting odd tonight. I don’t know exactly why but I think it’s something to do with Mycroft.”

“Is that so? And what makes you think that?” Sherlock snorted derisively, though he felt the stirrings of pride in John. He could tell that the other man was learning, slowly, but learning how Sherlock made his own deductions. And they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Sherlock couldn’t keep the small, pleased smile from his lips and John smiled back at him.

“Little things,” John replied, ticking off points on his fingers. “First, Greg was really reluctant to talk about anything but the most basic details. Second, he was distracted while we were talking. Nothing’s gone on in the rest of his life as far as I know and I think he’d talk to me about it. So that means Mycroft. And lastly, I noticed a tic Greg has. When he’s thinking hard about something and he’s not sure how he feels about it, he touches his thumb to the tips of each of his fingers. He was doing that often tonight.”

“But you don’t know why,” Sherlock said flatly, putting his violin carefully into its case. He tucked the sheet music in as well, still not wanting John to see it. It was silly, foolish, and sentimental. But Sherlock couldn’t get the tune out of his head. The only way to do that was to play it out and write it down. “You didn’t ask him, try to draw it out?”

“I tried, Sherlock, but I know when to back off,” John explained, a touch annoyed. “Pressuring him about it would have shut him up faster than anything else I could have tried. He’ll tell me in his own time if its important.”

“I need to know!” Sherlock growled, fluffing his hair with his fingers. It was a gesture he’d used since childhood to deal with anger and frustration. “So many things could go wrong with the plan, John. Mycroft could catch on or Lestrade could say or do something wrong or any number of things. I need to know everything to make sure this comes out the way I want it to!”

“Sherlock, you can’t just direct human interaction like an experiment,” John sighed, shaking his head. “People will do what they want for reasons of their own. You can’t always assume you know what they’ll do or that you can make them do what you want. We set the ball rolling. All we can do is observe and maybe nudge here and there.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, just stalked into his bedroom. John thought he heard the man mutter something about people being difficult before the door closed. John grinned to himself then headed to his own room. He had a shift at the clinic in the morning and it was going to come quickly. So far, everything appeared to be going as well as they could have hoped. Though there was something bothering John. Sherlock had mentioned before that Greg’s wife was cheating on him. John had no doubt it was true but Greg had seemed to not believe it. Could he be deciding to move on to Mycroft? There was no way for John to know, at least not before he needed to sleep tonight. Maybe eventually, Greg would open up about what he’d been thinking about so hard earlier.

Contrary to what John might have thought he was doing, Sherlock neither laid down to sleep nor worked on an experiment. There were a few that required attention but they could wait until Sherlock wasn’t busy. Extra time wouldn’t hurt the experiments at all. He was glad that Mycroft hadn’t balked at someone trying to be his friend. Sherlock had seen, over the years since Mycroft had left university, that Mycroft pushed everyone away. Except for him and their mother and even then Mycroft was still distant. Before John, Sherlock wouldn’t even have cared about how Mycroft felt but having a friend of his own made him understand the importance of them. Even in just a little under two years, Sherlock couldn’t imagine his life without John in it.

There had to be _something_ Sherlock could do to hurry along his plan. Cement the friendship growing between the two men. And, eventually, have them date even though Sherlock’s mind shied away from too many possible details about that. Lestrade would have to leave his wife first. That was the only way it would work. When Mycroft dated in university, he’d always been scrupulous about breaking up with the previous partner before courting another. And Sherlock could tell Lestrade was the same way. An _honorable_ man and Sherlock scoffed quietly at the notion. Honor as others saw it really had no place in his life. The highest honor Sherlock reached for was solving cases and solving them quickly and correctly.

Colin Reynolds. That was the weak spot, the point to apply pressure to watch Lestrade’s marriage crack apart. Sherlock felt the slightest twinge of guilt at that thought, John’s influence no doubt. But Lestrade would be better off without his wife. All Sherlock needed to do was get close to Colin and... nudge him a bit. As a single father, surely the man was lonely even if he was having an affair with Lestrade’s wife. Perhaps lonely enough to want to marry again and push her to leave Lestrade. With a wolfish grin pulling at his lips, Sherlock reclined on his bed and steepled his hands before his lips. Lestrade’s wife had never seen him and neither had Colin but Sherlock wanted to plan carefully. It wouldn’t do to be discovered before his plan had a chance to work. He lay awake the whole night, making and discarding plans until finally settling on the right one just as John left the flat.

\------------------------------------------------------

“Hey, mate, can you pass me a napkin?” Sherlock asked, pitching his voice a little higher than it normally was. He’d arranged to run into Colin at a small restaurant the man frequented. It had been easy to deduce it, a small napkin with the place’s logo sticking out of Colin’s back pocket. Plus, it was within walking distance of the school Colin worked at.

“Sure, here you go,” Colin replied, passing a napkin to the man next to him. He wore faded jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt. He seemed like an artist, especially with paint splattering his hands.

“Thanks,” Sherlock said, taking the napkin and setting it next to the sandwich he wasn’t eating. He held out a hand for Colin to shake. “I’m Daniel. Daniel Elkyns. You work up at the school around the corner, don’t you?”

“Colin Reynolds and I do,” Colin replied slowly and suspiciously, shaking Sherlock’s hand. “Why do you ask?”

“I painted it recently,” Sherlock replied, brandishing his hands. “That big mural in the front hallway. Just finished up earlier this morning and I thought I recognized you. It’s been driving me crazy that you looked familiar.”

“Ah, I see,” Colin said, relaxing and eating a chip. “Yeah, I’ve worked there a few years now. What about you? You just paint murals in schools?”

“No, it was a commission I took,” Sherlock replied, seeing his hook taken. “I do Impressionist work mostly. Couple of my paintings sold overseas and gave me some money. I did the mural for a friend. Drove my girlfriend crazy, let me tell you. For the past month, all I’ve eaten, drank, and breathed was that damn mural. It took forever for the school board to okay the subject. They even debated the colors I was allowed to use.”

“That sounds like them. Even off the board, they tend to be officious little pricks,” Colin laughed. “But now that you’re done, your girlfriend should be happier.”

“I’m planning on taking her out for dinner,” Sherlock said, affecting a thoughtful air. “Her favorite place. I’m just lucky she didn’t get fed up and leave. How about you? You got a girlfriend? Wife maybe?”

“My wife died when my son was born,” Colin replied, sadness darkening his eyes. He wasn’t sure why he was telling this to a nearly complete stranger but something about him invited confidences. Though he wasn’t going to tell everything. That would be stupid and foolhardy. “I started dating someone about a year ago. A great woman named Anne. We’ve been taking it slow because she’s had her share of problems.”

“Yeah? I’ve been with my girlfriend just under two years,” Sherlock replied, not noticing that he gave the time John had been in his life. “I’m thinking of proposing to her when I take her to dinner. Just have to find the right ring and the right way to say it. You think you might take the plunge with your girl?”

“I’d like to, I really would,” Colin sighed, a wistful look crossing his face. “I’ve even gone looking for a ring, just to see. Found the perfect one, too. First place that caught my eye. I just don’t know if she’s ready for that. Anne’s got kids of her own and I know she’ll think of them first. I would, in her place.”

“You’ll never know if you don’t ask,” Sherlock said sagely, winking to belie the pretentiousness of the words and his tone. “It might be a sign, finding the perfect ring in the first place you look. You want my advice?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Colin nodded, gesturing vaguely for Sherlock to continue. This was interesting and nothing Colin hadn’t thought about before. He thought he and Anne could have a good life together, if she wasn’t so used to being married to Greg Lestrade. Maybe a push, or slow urging, would get her to leave the man. Sean, Sophia, and Elizabeth were friends and surely, once the initial upset was over, they would all get along.

“Well, just start hinting at it, if she’s likely to spook,” Sherlock said, tapping a finger on the counter repetitively. “Slowly bring it around to making things more permanent. You seem to love her a lot and, if she loves you as much, surely she’ll come around.”

“That actually might work, you know,” Colin replied, a grin tugging at his lips. “Sometimes Anne just needs things explained clearly and extensively. Thanks, Daniel. You’re advice was definitely welcome.”

“You’re welcome, Colin, glad I was able to help,” Sherlock grinned back, the grin of a cat who’d gotten into the cream and convinced the owner that it was the cat’s all along. Sherlock checked the time on his phone and started wrapping his sandwich in the napkin. “It was nice talking to you, but I got to get going. Work calls.”

“Nice talking to you, too,” Colin replied, holding out his hand for Sherlock to shake again. “Good luck with your girlfriend and your paintings.”

“And to you, with your Anne,” Sherlock answered, shaking the hand and walking away. That little conversation had gone exactly as he’d hoped. Colin had reacted as Sherlock had thought he would after studying the man. He seemed more of a romantic and perhaps actually loved Lestrade’s wife. That didn’t matter to Sherlock as long as the man convinced her to leave Lestrade. Heading home in a cab, Sherlock picked at the sandwich he’d wrapped. John’s voice in his head convinced him to eat a little bit of it as he’d had nothing since the day before. It was a mark of the significant changes to even Sherlock that he didn’t consider that voice out of place.

\--------------------------------------------------------

A small black velvet box sat on his dining room table. Inside nestled a simple ring, gold with a round diamond surrounded by small round sapphires. The blue was almost the exact color of Anne’s eyes. Colin had bought the ring a month ago but had kept it buried in a drawer since then. The conversation he’d had with Daniel a few days earlier had convinced him that it was time to take the ring back out again. Reaching out slowly, Colin opened the box and watched as the light sparkled along the surface of the diamond.

Sean was at a movie with friends and that was the reason Colin had the ring out now. Sean didn’t know he was seeing anyone, though the boy might suspect. And he really didn’t want Sean knowing that it was Mrs. Lestrade, the mother of two of his friends. But Colin was sure, once everything had settled down if his plan went through, that Sean would be all right with it. He liked Mrs. Lestrade already. It would just take time.

Closing the box again and pulling his hand back just as slowly, Colin debated how he would approach the subject with Anne. He’d hinted that he might like things to change between them but Anne had completely ignored it at the time. Maybe, with all the extra hours Greg was working, she was finally at the tipping point. Besides, she had to be tired of playing third, or even fourth, fiddle in her marriage. Anna had complained often about Sherlock Holmes and how he was taking up time in his crazy endeavor to be a private investigator. When the doorbell rang, Colin stood quickly and shoved the ring box into his pocket. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

The doorbell rang again just before he reached the door. Colin opened it and smiled in pleased surprise at the person on his doorstep. Anne smiled back, brushing past him and walking into the living room. Colin closed the door and turned to Anne, pulling her into a hug. Anne buried her face against his neck, lips pressing at his pulse. Colin kissed the crown of her head, tightening his arms around her.

“I missed you,” Anne murmured, voice nearly muted against his skin. “The girls are shopping with their aunt. I had to come see you.”

“I’m glad you did,” Colin replied, just as quietly. He breathed for a moment, enjoying the smell of her hair and her perfume. There was something about Anne that always drew him. “You know you’re welcome to come over whenever you like.”

Anne let her hands wander over Colin’s back, tracing the planes of muscle. This was one difference she really liked from Greg: Colin was well-muscled and toned. He made her feel safe, protected, as if the world could go all to hell and Colin would still be able to hold everything back. She moved down, tracing over his lower back and hips. But a hard bulge in his back pocket confused her. It felt a bit like a box.

“Colin?” Anne asked, stepping back from the embrace. “What do you have in your pocket?”

“Ah, that’s.... ah,” Colin stammered, still trying to figure out how to broach the subject with her. He reached back and pulled the box out of his pocket. “Well, I suppose now is as good a time as any. Open it.”

Anne caught her breath, staring at the box Colin placed in her hand. She was fairly certain she knew what was inside it and just as certain she wasn’t ready for this. However much she didn’t like about her marriage, Anne still loved Greg. Sometimes it was enough. Opening the box, Anne saw what she thought was there but not exactly as she pictured it. The ring was perfect, the light glinting off the diamond and the sapphires. But she still wasn’t ready.

“Colin, I...” Anne started, shaking her head. She looked up to meet his eyes when his finger pressed against her lips to quiet her.

“Don’t answer now,” Colin said quietly. “I just want you to think about it. You don’t even have to take the ring right now. I didn’t want you to find out like this. I wanted to bring it up to you slowly. I know you have other considerations. Just promise me, promise you’ll think about it?”

“I can promise that much, my dear,” Anne replied, kissing the finger against her lips. She closed the box and handed it back to Colin. “I love you, you know that. But what about the girls? And Greg? I know I started this, I started the affair, but he doesn’t know. I still love him, too and I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I understand, Anne, I really do,” Colin nodded, sadness darkening his eyes. “But aren’t you hurting him already? He must know something is wrong with how you’ve drawn away from him. Even I’ve seen that, the few times we’ve all been together in the last couple months. Wouldn’t it be better to stop lying?”

“Colin, please, can we just let it go for now?” Anne asked, a hint of desperation in her voice. This wasn’t what she’d expected to happen today. “I came to see you before Greg and I left. We have a vacation planned. Tomorrow we’re leaving to head out to the country for a couple days. He’s hoping it’ll bring us closer together.”

“Fine,” Colin said, forcing himself to keep the question of whether it would clenched firmly behind his teeth. Now wasn’t the time. He pulled Anne back into his arms, resting his forehead against hers. “What did you have in mind for your visit today?”

Anne laughed and whispered into his ear, something that caused Colin to grin and swing her up into his arms. He walked towards his bedroom slowly, kissing Anne every few steps. Once inside, he dropped the ring box on his dresser. The whole thing had gone better than he’d feared and maybe there was a chance for them in the future. But that was forgotten as Anne made good on the promises she’d whispered.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Greg was able to get out of work early the day before his planned trip with Anne. It was something he’d planned for, knowing that if he stayed a murder or a kidnapping would have interrupted his trip. Dimmock was in charge for the next few days and Greg had left strict orders _not_ to call him unless all of London went up in flames. This was one vacation that he didn’t want anything to interrupt. After waving goodbye to his team, Greg walked outside whistling happily. The drive home was quick but the house was too silent when he walked inside. Anne and the girls were all out.

Sighing, Greg wondered what he should do to pass the time. It was likely that Anne, Sophia, and Elizabeth had gone out for a girls’ night out so he would have the evening to himself. He didn’t really want to spend the night alone but all his friends were probably still at work. Though, Mycroft might not be. Greg checked his watch and remembered that this was the day Mycroft had mentioned he’d taken as a personal day. Maybe he could spend some time with the other man. And if that wording skirted close to making it a date, again, well Greg just ignored that part. He pulled out his phone, deciding to send a text in case he’d remembered wrong.

Hey, Mycroft, you busy tonight? - GL

I am not, Greg. Why do you ask? - MH

Well, I’m not either and Anne and the girls are out. Mind if we hang out? Maybe you can show me your skills on the piano. - GL

You’d be very welcome, Greg, as long as you bring your guitar. I want to hear you play. My flat since my piano isn’t exactly mobile? - MH

Sure. Can you send me the address? - GL

Greg wrote down the address Mycroft texted him and tucked the paper into his pocket. He grabbed his guitar from the bedroom and packed it into its case. It was a little bulky but nothing Greg wasn’t used to. He didn’t even need to bring any sheet music with him as he’d memorized most of his favorite songs. After writing a quick note to Anne and leaving it on the kitchen table, Greg packed the guitar carefully into the backseat of his car. The traffic was still light as most people were still at work so the drive to Mycroft’s flat didn’t take very long at all. 

Parking, Greg took a deep breath and reminded the butterflies in his stomach that he was meeting a friend and playing some music. Nothing to be nervous or worried over. It was odd, those butterflies. The last time he’d had that feeling was the night he’d asked Anne to marry him. Getting out of the car and taking his case, Greg made his way up to the door and knocked. Mycroft answered, a welcoming smile on his face.

“Hello, Greg,” Mycroft said, gesturing for Greg to come in. “I made tea if you’d like some.”

“Sure, sounds great,” Greg replied, walking in and setting his case down. He took off his coat and hung it on the rack next to Mycroft’s. “Where’s your piano? I can put my guitar near it while we have tea.”

“First room on the right down the hallway,” Mycroft pointed and started walking down the hallway. “Kitchen’s at the end of the hall. I’ll go make tea while you deal with your guitar.”

Greg nodded and turned into the room. Mycroft made it into the kitchen and started putting a tray together. He had to sternly tell his hands to quit trembling. No matter how many times he told himself that it wasn’t true, having Greg in his home was more... intimate than the times they’d gone to the pub or to listen to music at that fair. This was the first time in a long time anyone had come to his home. Even Sherlock had never been here and work-related meetings were done at the Diogenes Club or the other person’s office. And with all the wishes and fancies Mycroft had, this visit felt even more... momentous. As if this was a tipping point, though Mycroft had no idea which way they would fall.

“So, you want to have tea here?” Greg asked suddenly, startling Mycroft. He hadn’t even heard Greg walk up, so lost in his thoughts Mycroft had been.

“If you like,” Mycroft replied, pouring hot water into the teapot for the leaves to steep in. “It shouldn’t be long now, just a few minutes.”

Greg pulled out a chair and sat down, propping his head up on one hand. He’d been on the go since four this morning, Sally Donovan having called him in because of a kidnapping. They’d found the child around noon; her mother had taken her from her father’s custody. It was one case that he hadn’t needed Sherlock on and it was pleasant not to hear the snide and sarcastic comments from Donovan and Anderson for once.

“You look tired,” Mycroft observed, pouring tea in Greg’s cup first then his own when it was suitably steeped. He sat down across from Greg and studied him intently through the steam rising from both of their cups. “You sure you want to be here today instead of getting some rest?”

“I’m sure,” Greg replied softly, though he yawned at the end of the sentence. “I didn’t really want to be stuck with silence back at my flat. Music would be perfect. Besides, I’ll get enough of a rest over the next few days. I’m going on a trip with Anne.”

“Oh? Where are you two headed off to?” Mycroft asked, ruthlessly quashing the flash of jealousy. Greg wasn’t his and wasn’t likely to ever be. Friendship was enough. Had to be enough. “Somewhere exotic and romantic, maybe?”

“Exotic not really,” Greg laughed, taking a sip of his tea after adding sugar. “We’re heading out to a bed and breakfast in the country. Romantic, though, I can only hope. Romance has been lacking lately.”

“I wish you luck, then,” Mycroft said. He truly meant the words. Greg’s happiness was important to him now. The man deserved every happiness, in Mycroft’s opinion. “May I make a suggestion if you haven’t thought of it? Play for her when you get there. Play her favorite songs, just for her.”

“I hadn’t thought of that, no,” Greg mused, sipping again at his tea. “But it is a good idea. Anne used to love listening to me play, back when we first started dating. Thank you, Mycroft, I believe that will definitely help.”

Mycroft nodded and sipped his own tea. He didn’t add anything to it, wanting the slightly bitter taste. It mimicked the flavor of this thoughts, something bitter tinged with a sort of melancholy happiness. The rest of the conversation turned back to music and bands. While Greg didn’t like classical music all that much, he was a fan of Beethoven. He was delighted to learn Mycroft was as well and they discussed favorite pieces. Greg drew a promise out of Mycroft to play Moonlight Sonata, his absolute favorite piece, later. And Mycroft, finally bowing to Greg’s questions about rock music, finally agreed that he did enjoy it. Then, promptly wheedled a promise out of Greg to play Don’t Look Back by Boston.

Finishing their cups of tea, Mycroft led the way back to the room their instruments were in. It was a combination of music room and library. The walls were filled, roof to floor, with bookcases made of cherry wood. They glowed with polish and made a stunning backdrop for the books Mycroft had collected. The center of the room was filled with Mycroft’s piano, a gramophone, and a record player. A couple rows of shelves were filled with sheet music and records. Greg allowed himself more time to investigate the room and was impressed at the sheer breadth of subjects contained in those shelves.

“Would you like to play first?” Mycroft asked, gesturing at Greg’s guitar.

“If you like,” Greg repeated Mycroft’s earlier words, tossing a smile over his shoulder as he pulled his guitar out of its case. It was an acoustic guitar, made of a pale tan wood. There was an odd pattern burned into the wood around the edges of the guitar, a line of ivy with stars embedded among the leaves and stalks. Greg kept the outer edges turned away from Mycroft, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. He’d forgotten about the pattern he’d decorated the guitar with himself. The meaning was a little silly, at least when trying to explain it to others. Greg had given up after the first few questions once he’d done it, once his mates at the time had laughed their heads off at him.

“Why are you hiding it?” Mycroft asked softly, staring at what he could see of the pattern. “The decoration is beautiful.”

“You’re the first to think so,” Greg replied sardonically, head down as he tuned the strings. “Everyone who’s ever seen it has laughed or looked at me like I ruined a treasure. Not even Anne likes it.”

“Then they didn’t know what they were looking at,” Mycroft said firmly. He stepped forward and waited until Greg paused in between tuning strings. Gripping the guitar gently near the rounded base, Mycroft turned it until he could see the full pattern. It truly was beautiful and seemed to pop out from the wood. The spaces in between the leaves and stalks looked as if they had been carved out, giving the whole thing a three-dimensional appearance. “Where did you get it done and what does it mean?”

“I did it myself,” Greg murmured, barely above a whisper. He waited a beat, wondering if Mycroft was going to laugh. When the other man did nothing, Greg continued, “The ivy reminds me to remember the strength from my roots. To remember the strength my family and my past gives me. The stars are to remind me to always look ahead, look above, and find the beauty that may be hiding. Sometimes it takes the right light, or frame of mind, to see it, just like the stars.”

“It’s gorgeous and it fits you, Greg,” Mycroft told him, letting the guitar go. He stepped back to put some space between them. He needed it before he did something rash and ill-advised. Having someone bare their heart, a part of their soul, like that was... compelling. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” Greg said, looking up and smiling tremulously. It felt wonderful to have someone understand. To not hear mocking laughter when he explained. He finished tuning the strings and strummed a few chords, wincing at the wrong notes. “Give me a bit to warm up. It’s been a long time since I’ve played.”

Mycroft nodded and settled himself on the piano bench. He watched avidly as Greg’s fingers danced over the frets. They were stiff at first but as Greg relaxed, so did his fingers. The chords started off as simple and slowly grew more intricate as Greg became more confident. The sound was amazing and Mycroft felt completely fascinated by it.

“I think I’m ready to play,” Greg remarked finally, looking up from the strings again. “Don’t Look Back, right? Good thing I like Boston or I’d need the sheet music for this.”

Greg started the song without waiting for Mycroft’s nod. His rhythm stumbled a bit until he remembered how the song went. He played smoothly, bits of the lyrics tumbling from his lips as he remembered them. Greg’s voice was a pleasant baritone with a slight burr. The burr made it seem as if his voice was caressing the words and Mycroft suppressed another shiver. Greg’s voice was great with the song. Tapping his fingers on his knees, Mycroft smiled as the song wound down. He was impressed with Greg’s skill.

“Your turn,” Greg said, setting the guitar down between his legs and rubbing his fingers. “I need a break. Strings are rough on your fingers when you haven’t played.”

“As you wish,” Mycroft said, repeating something he’d told Greg so long ago. Turning on the bench, Mycroft let his fingers slide over the keys of the piano. It was in tune as Mycroft usually played for at least half an hour each night. He warmed up quickly with scales and then segued into Moonlight Sonata. The song was soothing and comforting, even a touch romantic. Mycroft let his eyes slip closed as he lost himself to the music. He didn’t notice when he started to sway slightly but Greg did.

Greg watched, mouth falling open in surprise. Mycroft was the picture of complete absorption in the music. Moonlight Sonata filled the room, crawling into the empty spaces inside Greg. It filled him until he felt like he was going to burst. Breathing carefully, so that he didn’t interrupt Mycroft, Greg leaned forward and concentrated intently on the other man. Mycroft was power and passion and beauty, all rolled up into the notes of the piece. All too soon, it came to an end and Mycroft’s eyes opened to meet Greg’s. They stayed like that for several seconds as the last note shivered in the air. It had long faded before Greg broke their gaze first. Blinking and looking down, Greg picked up his guitar again.

“Want to play a little jazz?” Greg asked, sidestepping the moment that had passed between them. “I loved to improvise when I was in school.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, clearing his throat and wrenching his eyes back to the piano keys. “Why don’t you start and I’ll follow.”

Greg started a quick melody, something bouncing and joyful. Mycroft listened to it for a few moments then joined in, weaving a counterpoint with the piano. Greg grinned at him breathlessly then changed the tempo, slowing it down just a little. Mycroft followed again, adding his own embellishments and flourishes to the melody Greg had begun. They played for hours, taking turns and together. Laughter flowed just as easily as the music between them and Greg realized this was the most fun he’d had in a while. He loved music, loved making it, and to know that Mycroft shared that same love was brilliant. It wasn’t until the grandfather clock in Mycroft’s hallway chimed twelve times, interrupting them, that Greg realized how long they’d been doing this.

“I can’t believe how late it’s gotten,” Greg sighed after bringing the last song to an end. “I need to get going. Have an early day tomorrow.”

“I have one as well,” Mycroft admitted, brushing his fingers over the piano keys gently before lowering the lid. “It was a pleasure playing with you, Greg.”

“You too, Mycroft,” Greg replied, grinning at the double entendre. “We should do this again.”

“Yes, we should. Perhaps when you return from your vacation,” Mycroft offered, standing up and offering Greg his hand. Greg stood as well and shook Mycroft’s hand then turned to put his guitar away.

“We’ll set something up when I come back,” Greg said, turning to face Mycroft again. He hefted the case and started walking towards the door. “Maybe we can even get Sherlock here. I know he plays the violin. John’s complained about it a few times.”

“That would be a rather large maybe,” Mycroft replied dryly. “But it would be interesting. I haven’t played with Sherlock since we took lessons.”

They had reached the door and Greg pulled his coat off the coat rack. He shrugged into his awkwardly, forgetting that he could have just put his case down. Then again, sometimes his brain was scrambled when in Mycroft’s presence. They stood at the door for a few moments, just staring at each other again before Greg shook his head.

“Good night, Mycroft,” Greg murmured. He held out his hand for Mycroft to shake again. When Mycroft let go, Greg could have swore the man let his fingertips trail over his palm. He suppressed a shiver and opened the door.

“Good night, Greg,” Mycroft replied, rubbing his thumb over his fingers. He watched as Greg headed out to the car. He didn’t close his door until Greg had driven off, one last wave his final goodbye. Mycroft hadn’t been able to stop his fingers brushing over Greg’s palm. It seemed the more time he spent with the man, the more his walls and reminders broke down. Mycroft told himself he’d have to be more mindful of that in the future. Greg was married, after all, and not interested in men. Mycroft shut the door when Greg’s car turned the corner and headed upstairs to get ready for bed. Music played in his head as he lay waiting to fall asleep, repetitions of the music Greg had coaxed from his guitar. And tonight, Mycroft fell asleep with a smile on his lips.

Greg couldn’t get Mycroft out of his mind during the drive home. All he could hear was the music they’d just played, Moonlight Sonata overlaying it all. In a flight of fancy, Greg thought that if he exhaled sharply the music would show up in his breath as floating notes. With the music relaxing him, Greg could admit to himself things he would not have otherwise. After all, even if Anne might...

Greg grimaced as he realized how he was going to complete that thought. Erasing it grimly from his mind, Greg turned back to contemplating the wonderful night he’d just had. Mycroft was turning into a very layered individual and Greg was enjoying peeling those layers back to find what lay underneath. Quickly, and nearly silently even in his own mind, Greg admitted that he was attracted to Mycroft. The man was intelligent, funny, talented, and erudite. They had enough similarities to keep a conversation going in awkward pauses and enough differences to be interesting enough to learn about. And the man could _play_. Greg ached to get a saxophone or a trumpet into the man’s hands. If Mycroft could play either of those, they could make such fantastic jazz music. Even the piano had been nearly sinful, winding in and around the melodies Greg had set. Mycroft had made it feel like a caress and Greg, despite the arguments he’d had in his head, had tried to return the favor with his guitar.

Yet reality set back in when he pulled into his own driveway. By now, Anne, Sophia, and Elizabeth would be home. The girls would be in their beds since tonight was a school night. Their aunt would pick them up tomorrow after school and they’d stay with her while Greg and Anne were on their vacation. With a small pang of regret, Greg let go of the music. He wanted to hoard it, coat it in amber and set it on a shelf in his mind so that he could listen to it whenever he wanted. Perhaps that wouldn’t be a violation of the vows he’d made, however small a violation, if he only took the memory out when he was alone. After all, it wasn’t fair to Anne to think of someone else with such glowing praise when they were together.

Greg snuck quietly into the house, not wanting to wake anyone. He saw writing on the bottom of his note and grinned at the goodnight wishes from his daughters. Anne had merely signed with an XO, as she’d signed the letters they’d traded back in high school. Whatever happened back in that room with Mycroft, Greg knew he still loved Anne. Knew that he wanted to spend his life with her, if only she’d come back to him. Walking quietly into the girls’ rooms, Greg gave them a kiss on their foreheads and drew a little heart on the back of one hand with a red marker. It was something he’d done when they were toddlers, to let them know that he had been there and kissed them goodnight.

He then headed into his own bedroom, changing as silently as he could. Anne was sleeping on the bed, curled in on herself. It was a position that she slept in nearly every night and Greg was used to it. He actually found it kind of cute and often wrapped his arms around hers. Slipping into the bed, he smiled when Anne turned towards him and smiled sleepily.

“Hey,” she whispered, taking his hand. “Where were you at?”

“I was with Mycroft,” Greg replied quietly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “He plays the piano so we spent some time playing jazz.”

“That sounds fun,” Anne murmured, her eyes drooping closed. Greg nodded but Anne was already sound asleep again. He kissed her forehead again and settled into a comfortable position. He could only hope that this trip would mark a turning point in their relationship. Sleep came quickly and the strains of a piano followed him into dreams.

\---------------------------------------------------------------


	3. Chapter 3

The phone call came while Greg was packing slowly and dispiritedly. The holiday away hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped though it hadn’t been completely awful. The first day had been sweet and romantic, Greg playing his guitar after he and Anne had had a candlelight dinner on the patio of the bed and breakfast. Joy had lit Anne’s face while she listened; Greg had made sure to play her favorite songs. But the second day had turned stiff. Anne was lost in thought much of the time and answered in monosyllables whenever Greg had tried to talk to her. Things had gotten a little better at dinner, Anne carrying most of the conversation with funny stories and jokes. For a little while, Greg could have believed they were still dating or at the beginning of their marriage when everything was bright and shiny and new. He’d woken on the third day to a half-empty bed and a short note on the nightstand on Anne’s side.

_Greg,_

_I am deeply sorry to have to leave you like this. Something came up that I have to deal with. This holiday was lovely and it was wonderful being able to spend time with you again. I’ll make it up to you for leaving before you woke. Please forgive me._

_XO_

That letter had ruined the last day for him. Greg had spent it holed up in the room and watching television. He had to admit, though, it was nice being able to finish a program without getting called into work. When he finally couldn’t stand the babbling from the television and the silence in the rest of the room, Greg had started packing. When his phone rang, he stared at it for a few moments. Who could be calling him now? Was it maybe Anne, explaining what the hell had happened? Greg picked up the phone and saw Mycroft’s name on the display. He smiled, mood brightening a little bit.

“Hey, Mycroft, what can I do for you?” Greg asked, the smile evident in his voice.

“I’d like to ask you a favor, if I could,” Mycroft replied, the sound of shuffling papers coming over the phone clearly. A couple voices could also be heard in the background, sounding flustered.

“Sure,” Greg said, settling down on the bed. “Everything okay? Sounds like there’s problems over there.”

“Not a problem, exactly, more of an inconvenience,” Mycroft explained dryly. “The favor has to do with Sherlock. He and John took a case that took them to a research facility called Baskerville. Unfortunately, that’s a little out of my sphere of influence. I was hoping I could impose upon you to extend your holiday a few days and check in on them.”

“Baskerville, Baskerville,” Greg repeated slowly, trying to figure out why the name was familiar. Then, he gasped as it clicked. He’d heard Donovan and Dimmock discussing the place, each wondering what exactly the scientists there did. Every theory they thought of was even crazier than the one before. “What are they doing there? Weird stories about that place.”

“I’m... not sure exactly,” Mycroft admitted. Greg could hear the annoyance and frustration in his voice and held back a laugh. There was no need to antagonize Mycroft further. “The only reason I know they went is because Sherlock used my keycard to gain entrance. There are... urban legends about the facility and the surrounding area. I wouldn't put it past Sherlock to get himself into trouble investigating something he shouldn’t and I would feel more at ease if I knew someone I trusted was looking after them.”

“You know John is fairly competent himself,” Greg pointed out. A part of him wondered why he was arguing but he really wanted to continue the conversation with Mycroft. He was happier than he’d been all day just listening to this phone call. “He was in the army after all. Isn’t John enough to protect Sherlock?”

“John follows where Sherlock leads,” Mycroft answered, a dry laugh escaping him. “Honestly, John is as much addicted to the thrill and the high as Sherlock is. The only difference is that John keeps his gun ready. You’ve proven yourself immune to Sherlock’s draw and he knows you. Would you do this for me? Please?”

Greg wondered absently how often Mycroft used the word please while he considered the favor. It wouldn’t hurt to extend his holiday; he had another few days away from work. A call to his sister would make sure Sophie and Beth were taken care of. Though, at 15 and 13, they would stridently claim they didn’t need a babysitter. The voices coming from Mycroft’s end of the conversation hadn’t stopped talking and a new note entered their voices. Was that... nervousness? That please was what finally decided Greg. Mycroft was nearly begging, for him, and there was no way he could say no.

“All right,” Greg acceded, shaking his head. With that voice, Greg had a feeling Mycroft could convince him to do just about anything. “I’ll do it. Do you know where they’re staying?”

Mycroft wasn’t able to give an exact address but knew the town. It was small and there could only be so many places Sherlock and John could be staying. Especially if they were investigating Baskerville or urban legends. Greg said his goodbyes then hung up. He had a few more things to pack before he could check out. The bed and breakfast actually wasn’t all that far away from Baskerville. Once he’d checked out, Greg drove to the town and found another bed and breakfast. It was a small and cozy place, one in which Greg felt comfortable but wouldn’t want to spend too long in. At heart, he was a London man, much as it felt good to get London out of his lungs for a while. And this seemed like such an easy favor. After all, what could really go wrong?

Within two days, Greg came to regret that thought. It was considered famous last words for a reason. Everything had started out normally, though it had been a surprise that Sherlock hadn’t known his first name. Or if he ever had, he’d deleted it. Exploring the area was an adventure and Greg stayed well clear of the place named Dewer’s Hollow. Whether the urban legends were true or not, he didn’t feel like chancing it. Helping by investigating the story of a gigantic black dog roaming the moor was easy: John had found a receipt for a lot of meat from the butcher. Far more than a vegan bed and breakfast could possibly need.

After finding the information, Greg had stayed clear. Better for him to watch over Sherlock and make sure the man didn’t get into too much trouble. The bed and breakfast was relaxing and Greg finally felt the knots that Anne had tied inside him unwinding. Plus, he got to pull out his inspector routine with the owners, finally figuring out why they were buying raw meat. It wasn’t illegal to keep a dog out on the moors to perpetuate the legends but it definitely wasn’t kind. Especially as poor Henry Knight, the man who’d convinced Sherlock to come out here, had been driven nearly crazy by the whole episode. Greg had thought everything was finally over until Henry had cracked and turned violent.

John went after Henry with Greg after Sherlock figured out what was going on. Some sort of chemical had been introduced to Henry, something that heightened fear and turned people homicidally violent. They managed to find him at Dewer’s Hollow and Sherlock talked Henry out of shooting himself. The poor boy was almost completely insane. Then the man behind the whole thing showed himself. Sherlock realized that the fog was really the chemical in aerosol form. But before they could subdue the scientist, the dog they had believed to have been put down appeared on the ridge above them. Greg tried to shoot the thing but it was huge with glowing red eyes. He couldn’t get a clear shot, couldn’t focus enough to kill it. Each shot missed and Greg blinked hard, trying to clear his eyes. Shots barked to his right and slightly in front of him; John had kept his head enough to kill the thing. The mastermind behind the entire plan ran off as Sherlock showed Henry that it was just a dog, just a regular dog that the gas had turned into a monster.

That chase had not ended pleasantly. The scientist had headed straight for Baskerville. Maybe he thought he could escape in the facility. That was a mistake as there was a minefield around the entire place. Greg couldn’t hear the inevitable click that signalled a mine being armed, not at that distance. He wondered, after, what was going through the man’s head to make him step off that mine. Of course, they would never know. A brilliant plume of fire lit the night and Greg stumbled to a halt behind John. They both knew what that meant, he could see it in the set of John’s shoulders. Sherlock seemed more stunned and disbelieving, though. Greg was fairly certain he hadn’t seen violence quite like that.

The trip back to London was a sober one, for Greg. He didn’t like seeing death, not even for someone who might have deserved it. It merely drove home the seeming futility of his job: no matter how many killers, kidnappers, and rapists he might take off the street, another two rose to take their place. It reminded Greg of why he did what he did but also depressed him in ways he couldn’t explain. Nor expect anyone to understand. Anne certainly didn’t. She’d wanted to hear about his work when he was in a calmer division, one that didn’t call him out at all hours of the day and night. Yet, when he’d transferred into his current one, she’d stopped listening. She hadn’t quite forbade talk of cases and what he did yet Greg could read between the lines. Then, Anne had made him promise never to mention Sherlock or the cases the man worked and that was that. It made for a lonely existence, feeling as if he was near his family but not really a part of it. Not when such a large part of himself was denied.

Greg pulled into his own driveway, expecting to see at least one light on in the house. The girls were still at their aunt’s, at least until tomorrow, but Greg thought Anne might have been home. The house was dark, though, dark and completely silent. Not even birds chirped. Pulling his suitcase out of the backseat, Greg trudged up to the door and let himself in. He forced himself to walk straight, shoulders squared, no matter how much he might want to slump under the weight of the silence. To distract himself, Greg unpacked everything and put it away. Putting emphasis on folding everything just so, making sure all his clothes were in their proper places, kept the silence at bay for a short time. But as soon as he was done, it pressed down on him again. Work wouldn’t get its claws into him again until the day after tomorrow so Greg decided he could do with a night out. By himself, unfortunately. John, his usual pub buddy, had stayed behind for another day with Sherlock.

Greg headed out to his favorite pub. He took a cab, knowing he would probably be far too drunk to drive himself back. No point in being a danger to others. The cabbie knew the streets and had Greg there quickly. He headed inside after paying the cabbie, giving him a decent tip. Greg still had enough money to get himself good and drunk. He settled himself at the bar, ordering a shot of whiskey. Once the bartender poured it, Greg picked it up and downed the shot. It burned as it went down, fire tracing its way to his stomach. It warmed him, a soft glow flowing through his veins. That glow was tiny yet; it took more than one shot to get Greg drunk. Duly, he ordered another one and drank that down just as quick.

“A beer now, please,” Greg told the bartender. He wanted to pace himself a little bit. The silence was not appealing, even drunk, and Greg wanted to stay here as long as he could. He wouldn’t mind being here at last call, which was around three am. Drinking the beer slower, Greg watched the rerun of a game that had played about a week ago. Even though he’d seen it before, it was enough to keep his attention. He hadn’t come here to talk, after all, and the other patrons at the bar were the same. Finishing his beer, Greg ordered another one. More shots could wait until later.

“Want to start a tab?” the bartender asked, setting the second pint of beer in front of Greg. “Or do you want to pay as you go?”

“As I go, I suppose,” Greg said, his words slurring just slightly. He dug out a few bills, dropping them on the bar. The bartender scooped them up and tucked them into her apron. “Another two shots after this pint.”

“You got it,” she replied, sweeping down the bar to deal with other customers. Greg didn’t bother watching as she went. All his attention was on the beer in front of him. He drank steadily, feeling the glow spread throughout his body. After it was finished, his head was feeling pleasantly light. That was the only pleasant thing he felt though. There was some sort of sad, crooning music being piped in over the speakers. It reminded Greg of everything that was really wrong in his life. The glow and the lightheadedness wouldn’t allow him to push it all out this time. Sophia and Elizabeth were great, he loved them more than he would have ever believed. They were two bright lights in his life and Greg would not have changed a thing that brought them into it. Anne was another thing.

“Two more shots, as ordered,” the bartender announced, setting two shot glasses filled to the brim with whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light in the bar and glimmered. Greg almost felt like they were calling to him.

“Thanks. ‘Nother beer then,” he muttered, words even more slurred. He was still understandable, speaking each syllable slowly through the slurring. The bartender cast him a slightly worried look; it wasn’t often Greg drank like this. Ignoring it, Greg picked up one glass and drank the whiskey down slowly. The burn was stronger as it slid down his throat. Yet it felt even better than it had the first time. Setting the glass down, Greg stared at his hand as it trembled. His loneliness and sorrow was starting to get the better of him now. The music continued its slow crooning and Greg felt like the notes were settling into his bones like brands. Maybe more alcohol would help. He downed his fourth shot of the night, coughing a little after. Normally, this was the point he would stop. Normally, a night at the pub was for having fun and catching a game with friends. Not tonight. Tonight was for drowning everything in amber and gold liquid, for letting all his worries and fears come out to consider with the distance the alcohol provided.

Another beer nudged his fingers and Greg dug out a few more bills. He managed a smile at the bartender, bleary eyes blinking slowly. Greg was proud when he was able to lift the glass and not slop any of the beer over the sides. Drinking the pint quickly, wanting the drunkenness and not the taste, Greg dropped the empty glass back on the bar with a clink. He signalled for two more shots and watched as the bartender poured them.

“You sure you should be drinking this fast?” she asked, sliding the first one over to him. She propped a hip against the bar, studying Greg carefully. “At this rate, we’re gonna have to carry you out of here tonight.”

“Wouldn’t be against that,” Greg said, picking up the shot and drinking it in two gulps. “Want the fog tonight. Want to be falling-down drunk.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Greg,” the bartender told him, sighing as he glared at her. She slid the second shot over, more worry in her eyes as Greg drank it.

“ ‘Nother shot,” Greg mumbled, looking up at the game. It was nearly over though Greg knew he hadn’t been here that long. The alcohol was definitely affecting him now; he could barely focus on the television to see the colors of the team’s uniforms.

“All right, I gotta cut you off after this one,” the bartender said, steel in her voice. She’d worked here a long time and knew when someone needed to stop. She also had the confidence (and the bouncers) to back it up. She sighed when Greg tapped imperiously at the bar but poured the shot. Greg took it and downed it just as quickly. Swaying on the stool, Greg put the shot glass back down carefully. “You got someone I can call? If you drove, you aren’t driving back.”

“Cab,” Greg tried to explain, his tongue tripping over the simple word. “Cab back. Got address.”

Greg fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his wallet. A thought was forming in his head, glacially slow through the pleasant haze of alcohol. Mycroft. He wanted to see Mycroft. Maybe explain what had happened at Baskerville. Greg had not even called once the case was over and Mycroft would want to know. After all, if Anne could... Greg cut that line of thought off, difficult as it was. It didn’t go away completely, the alcohol giving him the false courage for something he would never have considered sober. He pulled out a card, the card he’d written Mycroft’s address on.

“Here,” Greg slurred, handing it over to the bartender. “Wan’ go here.”

The bartender glanced at the card dubiously then shrugged. It was all the same to her as long as Greg didn’t drive and got wherever he wanted to go safely. She turned to pick up the phone, calling the cab company that contracted with the bar. Patrons got discounts on their fares if they left from the bar. She spoke quickly, nodding and holding up a finger towards the other patrons trying to get her attention. After setting up the ride, she returned the card to Greg, who tucked it carefully back into his wallet.

“Cab’s waiting out front,” she told him, nodding at one of the bouncers to come help Greg out. “Go sleep it off, honey. You’re gonna have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.”

“Night,” Greg muttered, sliding off the stool and almost falling to his knees. The bouncer caught him, rolling his eyes at Greg’s inebriation. It was nothing he’d not seen before but it got old quick. He helped Greg into the cab, nodding amiably at the cabbie. The man often worked the area around the bar and was friendly with all the bouncers. The trip was quick as the streets were nearly empty and Greg merely watched the street roll past his window. The houses were mostly dark as they passed, the people inside sleeping deeply. Unlike all the others, Mycroft’s home had a single light on as the cab pulled up. Greg managed to pull enough money out of his wallet for the fare and a tip, hands shaking as he handed it over.

It took a few tries to get out of the cab but Greg eventually managed it. He waved at the cabbie, swaying where he stood. The man waved back and pulled away, leaving Greg to make his unsteady way to Mycroft’s front door. He rang the bell, pressing it again after a few seconds. Even with the light on, Mycroft might be asleep. Greg leaned against the side of the building, bleary eyes on the door. Hoping Mycroft was awake and him actually being awake were two very different things. Yet Greg’s hope paid off when Mycroft answered the door wrapped in a flannel robe and gray pajama pants showing underneath. Mycroft glanced around, confusion on his face until he saw Greg. Then, the confusion changed to pleased surprise and worry as he took in the other man’s inebriated state.

“Greg, what were you thinking?” Mycroft muttered to himself, taking Greg’s arm and leading him inside. Greg leaned heavily on Mycroft, needing the support to keep himself upright. Mycroft managed to get Greg into the living room, letting the other man drop heavily onto the couch.

“Wanted to see you,” Greg murmured, words barely understandable. It took Mycroft a few moments to pick out the meaning. “Wanted to talk.”

“Greg, you are impressively drunk right now,” Mycroft replied gently. He walked into the kitchen to fill a glass with water and brought it back. “Drink this then we’ll talk.”

Greg drank it obediently, if slower than he’d drank the pints of beer. His eyes never left Mycroft’s over the rim of the glass, something more than fuzzy lightheadedness burning in them. Mycroft caught his breath, unable to look away. He felt like a fly trapped in amber and couldn’t help but enjoy the feeling. Greg’s eyes on him felt like a caress, as if Greg was running light fingers over Mycroft’s skin. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or just a product of the alcohol and Mycroft found it hard to care. Yet he had to. He had to ignore that look to keep the friendship he’d begun to prize more than most things in his life. Once the glass was empty, Greg handed it back and continued to stare at Mycroft.

“I drank it,” Greg said grumpily. “Now wanna talk.”

“Go ahead then,” Mycroft told him, setting the glass on the coffee table and leaning back on the couch. He assumed a relaxed pose, one leg crossed over the other and hands resting lightly on his thighs. “What was so important that you needed to come over here in the middle of the night drunk?”

“You know I’m married, right?” Greg asked, tilting his head to the side as he spoke. His words weren’t any easier to understand and Mycroft puzzled his way through them. “Anne, her name is. Bet you researched me the minute you found out Sherlock helped me with that first crime scene. Got wife, kids, house, job. What did you find, Mycroft?”

“I did do research on you,” Mycroft admitted softly. He tried to ignore it when Greg scooted a little closer. Tried to keep his relaxed pose, hard as that might be. “I wanted to protect my little brother and I needed to know everything I could about you. I found you were a devoted inspector and loving family man. Solid, trustworthy, dependable. Why? What did you think I’d find?”

“Loving family man,” Greg repeated, a sneer twisting his lip as he bit off each word. He shook his head then moaned as pain shot through his head and down his neck. That hadn’t been a good idea. “I try. I do try. I know I go wrong, though. Didn’t want to see it but Sherlock. Bloody wanker made me see it.”

“What are you talking about?” Mycroft asked carefully. He had a fairly good idea what Greg was going to say next. He knew all about the affair, even knew the name of the man and his profession. But _Greg_ hadn’t wanted to know, had shoved the knowledge, the suspicions, the doubts away.

“Anne’s having an affair,” Greg replied bluntly, leaning slightly towards Mycroft. The move was slow and less than graceful, as if Greg had no idea what he was doing. He very well might not, drunk as he was. “Sherlock told me at Christmas. Didn’t want to believe, wanted to pretend I still had the perfect family. Colin’s a friend of ours, he’s one of the girls’ teachers. And he’s not the first. I still love her, God help me, so I let her do it. Let her pull away because my job took so much of my time. Had to spend time with Sophie and Beth. I love them so much. Only so much time in the day. Had to choose.”

“I’m so sorry, Greg,” Mycroft said, sympathy clear in his voice. He wanted to put an arm around Greg’s shoulders but held himself back. He wasn’t completely sure he could stop merely at that; the attraction he felt had merely grown over the time they’d been working at becoming friends. And Greg slumping even closer was testing every bit of resolve Mycroft had. “I wish there was a way I could help.”

“Help. Maybe you could. Maybe there is something you could help me with,” Greg murmured, tone thoughtful despite the slurred words. He looked up at Mycroft with a grin pulling at his lips. “I’ve wondered why Anne does it, you know. Why she goes to someone else. What does she feel, what made her choose to have an affair. I want to know even if the curiosity, or the answer, kills me.”

“Greg,” Mycroft began, a note of warning and worry in his voice. “This isn’t you. It wouldn’t be good for you to learn this, especially if you’re thinking of doing what I think you are. It would be foolhardy and possibly dangerous.”

“Dangerous? What could be dangerous about my plan?” Greg laughed, swaying in his seat. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, laughing so hard he started to wheeze.

“You’re drunk,” Mycroft replied calmly, hoping he could talk Greg out of whatever plan he had. “And if you want to know why Anne’s doing what she’s doing, you should just ask her. Going out to find some stranger, whatever you intend to do with them, is just foolish.”

“A stranger. No, not a stranger. Not the plan,” Greg laughed, shaking his head. “You, Mycroft.”

Absolute silence greeted that remark, Mycroft unable to think of a single response. It wasn’t often that Mycroft found himself speechless and he didn’t like the feeling. Had Greg been sober, had this been under nearly any other circumstance, Mycroft would have thought this was almost a dream come true. Yet, still, most of Mycroft wanted to go ahead with whatever Greg had planned. He wanted the man, more than he’d wanted anyone, even the few people he’d dated in university. But this wasn’t the way. The small rational bit of him was still in control and he wasn’t going to let Greg do this.

“That’s not a good idea,” Mycroft said softly, ignoring the voice screaming inside his head. “You’re drunk, Greg, and you don’t know what you’re saying. I doubt you’ll even remember this suggestion in the morning.”

“I know I’m drunk and I know what I’m saying,” Greg argued, blinking blearily. He let himself slump completely against Mycroft, draping an arm against his thigh. “I want to kiss you Mycroft.”

Mycroft didn’t pull away, enjoying the warmth that Greg radiated. He debated whether to allow it, whether he should let Greg kiss him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it, not at all. But this could ruin everything between them. Mycroft watched Greg warily out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t face the man, not right now. If he did, turned his head towards Greg, he would lean down through the couple inches of space that separated now and kiss him. A voice in Mycroft’s head wondered whether that would be so bad. Greg was in an unhappy marriage, after all. Didn’t he deserve any happiness he sought out? The rational voice pointed out that Greg wasn’t interested in men, at least not that he’d found any evidence about. 

“Stop thinking,” Greg ordered, cupping Mycroft’s chin and turning his face towards him. “I want to kiss you and I think you want to kiss me. Just let it go, Mycroft. Kiss me.”

Mycroft couldn’t refuse the naked pleading in Greg’s eyes. With that and the quiet order to kiss him, Mycroft finally bowed to what had rapidly become inevitable. The rational voice counseling restraint faded away and all that was left was sheer want. Letting his eyes slide closed, Mycroft leaned forward, closing that last space between them, to press his lips gently against Greg’s. The kiss was tender and slow, lips just barely touching. Greg’s fingers tightened on Mycroft’s chin for a few moments before Mycroft pulled away.

“That answer your question?” Mycroft whispered, smiling at Greg. He could let it go at one kiss, let Greg go back to his own life and be merely a friend. He _could_.

“As well as it can, I suppose,” Greg slurred doubtfully, never taking his eyes off Mycroft. “But I want to kiss you again.”

Mycroft didn’t fight it when Greg pulled him back and pressed their lips together again. A small sound escaped his throat, something between a moan and a sigh. Mycroft pulled Greg closer to him, wrapping his arms around the other man’s waist. Greg came eagerly, his mouth opening as he teased at Mycroft’s lips with his tongue. Mycroft let him in, letting Greg control the kiss. It was what he wanted, after all, and Greg was impressively good at it. They continued to kiss, Greg’s hand sliding down Mycroft’s jaw and to his throat. He caressed the skin there, rubbing gently over Mycroft’s pulse. It had started racing and was obvious even with as drunk as Greg was.

The whole thing was almost surreal, when Mycroft bothered to think about it. He’d never expected Greg to kiss him. Certainly not as desperately as he was now. Craving the warmth Greg was exuding, Mycroft slid closer to him on the couch. He tightened his arms around Greg’s waist and didn’t complain when Greg all but climbed into his lap. Sloppily, it was true, yet Greg still managed it. Letting his hands slide down to Greg’s hips, Mycroft took control of the kiss. He nipped at Greg’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth before letting it slide back out. They were both panting by now, chests heaving together. Greg didn’t appear to want to stop, plastering his body to Mycroft’s. Mycroft could feel everything, every breath and every shift. But he couldn’t let it go further, much as his body screamed for it. Pressing one last, regretful kiss to Greg’s lips, Mycroft pulled back and took a deep breath.

“Greg, we should stop,” Mycroft said, the words dragged reluctantly past his lips. “You should sleep.”

“Don’t wanna,” Greg replied, trailing his fingers across the nape of Mycroft’s neck. “Can tell you don’t wanna either.”

“No, I don’t,” Mycroft admitted frankly, shivering and closing his eyes at Greg’s touch. His neck was sensitive, had always been. “But we should. I can’t let you do this right now. Can’t let me do this now. Sleep off the alcohol and, if you remember this, we’ll talk about it in the morning.”

Greg stared at Mycroft for a few seconds, fingers still stroking his neck. Slow thoughts flooded his mind, moving like molasses. He knew Mycroft was right, he really did. He probably shouldn’t even have come here this drunk to begin with. But this felt _right_. It felt like he belonged here, in Mycroft’s arms with desire sparking between them. A memory of Anne’s smiling face on their wedding day flashed through Greg’s mind and he sighed. Yes, he needed to stop. Tomorrow would be soon enough to face this. Pulling his hand away from Mycroft’s neck, though Greg couldn’t stop himself from a final, lingering caress, Greg shifted sideways on the couch until he was out of Mycroft’s lap. They had both caught their breaths by now though Greg didn’t look at Mycroft.

“Do you... mind if I stay here?” Greg asked haltingly, this time through no fault of the alcohol. “I shouldn’t go... home... like this.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied, not looking at Greg either. “I have a guest room. It hasn’t been used, well, at all, but you are welcome to it for tonight.”

“Thank you, Mycroft,” Greg said, standing up and catching himself before he could fall down. “If you could just tell me where it is?”

“How about I show you?” Mycroft suggested, standing as well and taking Greg’s arm. He made sure to keep some distance between them, though. “You look like you may not make it there by yourself.”

They made their way slowly to the guest bedroom. It was near Mycroft’s own bedroom just after the music room/library. Greg stumbled into the bed, stretching out over the blankets. Mycroft pulled a throw blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed and covered up Greg. The man was sound asleep, light snores coming from him. After spreading the blanket over Greg, Mycroft took a few moments to just look. There was peace on Greg’s face and he was beautiful. And untouchable, no matter what had happened earlier. Mycroft had to keep reminding himself about that. His hand lifted of its own accord, brushing a lock of hair off Greg’s forehead before Mycroft snatched it back. Allowing himself to touch further was a recipe for disaster and Mycroft wanted to keep their friendship intact. No matter the cost.

A final longing glance and Mycroft walked to his own room. It was cold and empty, reminding Mycroft starkly of the man sleeping just a few feet away. He changed for bed and slipped between the sheets. The bed warmed slowly, Mycroft’s body heat spreading throughout the bedding. The kiss replayed over and over in his head and Mycroft found sleep coming slowly. He had a feeling it would be lucky if he slept at all.

The next morning, he was up before Greg. Remembering his own forays into drinking, and the hangover the next day, Mycroft had set a glass of water and some aspirin out on the table before cooking breakfast. Breakfast was light and simple: toast with scrambled eggs. Slow footsteps and quiet, pained groans announced Greg before he actually made it into the kitchen. Perfect timing, really, as the eggs had just finished. Mycroft spooned them onto a plate and set it at the table, sitting down as Greg walked in. Mycroft waved at the other chair and the pills sitting next to the glass of water.

“I thought you might have a headache this morning,” Mycroft said cheerily, though he made sure to keep his voice quiet. “Take the aspirin and then try breakfast.”

“Thank you,” Greg murmured, rubbing at his forehead. He took the pills and drank the water thirstily. The eggs smelled good and he put some on a plate along with a few slices of toast. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the sound of silverware on plates the only thing in the room.

“Feel better?” Mycroft asked once they were both done. “I’m not sure how much you drank last night but it had to have been a lot.”

“It was,” Greg admitted, shaking his head over his actions the night before. He knew he was a maudlin drunk. He shouldn’t have had that much to drink. “I’m sorry I... imposed on you.”

“It’s quite all right,” Mycroft assured Greg, noting the pause before the word imposed. How much did Greg remember from the night before? Every second was seared into Mycroft’s memory, nearly all of it pleasant. “What do you remember?”

Greg sighed and stalled by getting up to refill his glass with water. He was embarrassed about what he’d done. What was even more embarrassing was how much he wanted to do it again. But Greg loved Anne and he wanted to make things work with her. Perhaps Greg would need to stop being friends with Mycroft if he couldn’t control himself. With a deep breath, Greg turned back to Mycroft, fiddling with the glass in his hands.

“Everything,” Greg admitted softly, staring down into the water as if it held all the answers he needed. “And... I’m sorry. I don’t know why I kissed you and it won’t happen again. I’m not... I’m not gay, not interested in guys, you know?”

 _That_ hurt. Mycroft hid the wince of pain, looking away to disguise the sadness in his eyes. He’d expected as much but it was still painful to hear. And even with the awkwardness that had sprung up between them, it didn’t feel wrong. Mycroft felt as if Greg belonged here in his kitchen, talking and eating breakfast. He shook that feeling away; Mycroft couldn’t afford the distraction, not right now. It was going to be a delicate operation, salvaging their friendship from last night.

“I understand,” Mycroft told Greg, finally looking up. “You were drunk and in pain.”

“Yes but that doesn’t excuse my actions,” Greg argued, shaking his head. He took a drink then continued, “I shouldn’t have barged in here and kissed you. I’m married, first off. I love Anne.”

“I know that,” Mycroft said gently, wishing Greg would meet his eyes. It would be easier to read him if he did, though Mycroft could still deduce part of what Greg was thinking. He was gathering his courage for something, most likely to sever the friendship. “I’m not upset. I wasn’t last night, more shocked really.”

“That’s good, I suppose,” Greg said dubiously, finally looking up. He could see the truth in Mycroft’s eyes and that eased his worries. “But I don’t want it to happen again. Even if you weren’t upset that’s no excuse. Maybe... maybe I should take myself out of your life. It might be better if we weren’t friends.”

“Do you really believe that?” Mycroft asked. There it was and Mycroft didn’t want Greg to go. Even if friendship was all he ever got. “Because I don’t. It can be forgotten, if you choose. To be honest, I enjoy your company and would hate to lose it.”

“Are you sure?” Greg asked after staring for several seconds. His voice cracked, relief and disbelief evident in each syllable. “You would be willing to let what happened go, pretend as if it never did?”

“If that’s what you would choose,” Mycroft repeated, nodding slightly. “I want you in my life, Greg. I enjoy your friendship. I can let what happened go.”

“Then so can I,” Greg said, relief predominant in his voice now. He smiled tremulously and took a deep drink of his water. “Thank you. And thank you for breakfast. I hate to eat and run but I need to get home.”

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft replied, smiling back. “And I don’t mind. There are usually cabs just down the road at this time of morning. Or you can call one.”

“I think I’ll walk down the road,” Greg said thoughtfully. He drained his glass and set it into the sink. “I could use a walk. See you around?”

“Sure. We should have another music night. It was a lot of fun,” Mycroft nodded and cleaned up the table while Greg walked out and grabbed his coat. He shrugged into it and opened the door just as Mycroft walked into the foyer. He let a smile tug at his lips again and felt happier when Mycroft smiled back. Greg had woken up this morning with a knot in his gut, worried that he had ruined the friendship between them. It was good to know that he hadn’t. Waving, Greg walked down the stoop and didn’t look back. He didn’t quite want to know what he’d see, how Mycroft would look now that his back was turned. The man had sounded completely truthful earlier yet Greg knew Mycroft could lie with a perfectly straight and honest face. The walk was quick and the slightly chill air brushed away the last wisps of fog in his mind. It was going to be a good day. Greg was going to make it a good day if it killed him. He needed one now.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Anne sat in her car, staring up at the house that was her destination. She knew Colin was inside and Sean wasn’t. Sean was at school and Colin wasn’t working this week. He’d taken the week off for the training of another teacher. That teacher had taken over Colin’s classes. It was something new the school was trying, a new teacher taking over another teacher’s position for a week to learn before going on to another school. So far, it had worked fairly well. Each teacher had gone into their permanent post more confident and able to deal with their students.

And Anne was stalling. The whole time she was getting the girls ready for school, her mind had wandered, multiple scenarios for the coming conversation flying through her thoughts. This was why she had left Greg so suddenly. Anne had needed time to consider, to think. Time by herself without any interference or influence from anyone else, especially Greg. The silence had allowed her to think through each path she might choose. There were so many ramifications from either decision that stood before her and Anne still wasn’t quite sure which path was the right one. Yet she had to choose, had to pick someone to stay with. It wasn’t quite fair to either Greg or Colin that she was doing this.

With a deep sigh, Anne got out of the car and closed the door slowly behind her. She couldn’t quite bring herself to stop taking the most amount of time to do anything before walking up and finally knocking on that door. Anne thought she knew what she was going to decide, who she was going to choose, but knots still twisted in her stomach. Each time she settled on a decision, something came up to change her mind. Even within the space of five minutes, Anne had vacillated between the two choices at least half a dozen times. She didn’t think she’d settle on a decision until the words came out of her mouth. After that, there was no return.

Anne walked slowly up the sidewalk, forcing her feet to continue the pace. She wanted to slow down, to stop, to turn around and leave here. She’d never done arguments very well, always preferring to leave until tempers cooled. But there was no way Anne could avoid this. Reminding herself that she needed to make a choice once she reached the door, Anne lifted a heavy hand and knocked. Part of her hoped Colin wouldn’t answer though the majority knew he would. After a minute or so, the door opened and Colin met her with a pleased smile.

“Hello Anne,” Colin said, stepping back to make room for her. “Come on in. I just sat down to watch a movie. You’re welcome to watch it with me.”

“Thank you,” Anne replied, not meeting his eyes as she stepped inside. “A movie sounds lovely but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Okay,” Colin said slowly, leading the way into the living room. He shut the television off, the paused picture flashing to black. He set the remote down and sat down on the couch. “What’s the matter, Anne? You look worried.”

Anne paced, unable to settle down on the couch. The knots twisted harder in her stomach and her throat clenched tightly closed. She _had_ to do this, had to make the choice, even if she had no idea which way she was going to go. Anne’s decision flipped again, being here changing it. It was so difficult, standing here and staring at Colin. Remembering everything they’d done together, all the laughter and love. As Colin continued to watch her, Anne slowly worked the nerves away. She had to be completely calm for this, completely rational. No matter how hard it might be, who she might tear apart with the words that would come out of her mouth. Finally, Anne sat down on the other end of the couch, still not meeting Colin’s eyes.

“We... we need to talk Colin,” Anne started, twisting her fingers together. No matter how hard she tried to push them away, fear and nerves still had a tight grip on her. “About us. About the future.”

Anne couldn’t go on at that point, her throat closing around the words. The hope on Colin’s face was physically painful and Anne kept twisting her fingers together. She was grateful that Colin didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt her. There was a good chance that, if he did, Anne wouldn’t be able to go on. She’d just laugh and smile, letting the decision go and staying with the inertia that was what she had now. It wasn’t fair, it wouldn’t be fair, but it would be easier than this. Easier than finally making a choice and severing ties with someone. Finally meeting Colin’s eyes, and that made this so much harder, Anne swallowed hard and forced herself to continue. She had to.

“I’ve... made my decision,” Anne said, stalling for just a little longer. Both choices loomed charge in her thoughts, each one important and each one heartbreaking. “I know what I want to do. I know who I’ve chosen.”

“I’m glad you made your decision,” Colin said softly when Anne didn’t speak again for several seconds. His heart was beating hard, an irregular pounding in his ears. Outwardly, Colin managed to remain calm and somewhat curious though inwardly, he writhed. It was almost like Anne didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to make a choice. He waited as patiently as he could, hoping that Anne would tell him what he wanted to hear, desperately. Everything else could be figured out, worked through, if she would just give him that first yes. “Will you tell me what it is?”

“I... I... I think...,” Anne started, stammering through the sentence. She took a deep breath and settled her hands in her lap firmly. A curious calm overcame her and Anne finally knew exactly what she was going to do. “I choose Greg. I’m sorry, Colin, but I choose him. We need to end this.”

Colin let out a breath, whistling softly between his lips. This was a chance, he knew this was a chance, but Colin had believed Anne would choose him. He loved her dearly, loved her more than anyone other than his late wife. The words reverberated around his head, repeating over and over. Shaking his head, Colin sighed and met Anne’s eyes. Maybe... maybe he could convince her that he was the right choice and not Greg? Maybe he could really keep her?

“Are you sure?” Colin asked, a thread of desperation in his voice. “Have you really thought this through? I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Can you say the same about Greg? With how he works all the time with never a thought for his family? I’ve seen you wither, Anne, lose your vitality and your spark while you were with him. I’ve never seen you so happy as when you were with me. Are you really sure you want him?”

“You know, you’re right,” Anne mused, looking away and letting her eyes flick around the room. “It partially was my fault, maybe mostly my fault. If I hadn’t started this with you, maybe Greg wouldn’t have started working so many hours to get away from a cold house. Even though those hours are the reason I came to you, he seems to be working less now. Perhaps due to that man, Sherlock Holmes.”

Colin caught the little sneer that pulled at Anne’s lips when she spoke the name. She obviously didn’t like this Sherlock Holmes, though Colin didn’t really know why. He didn’t know anything about the man or how he might be interfering with Greg’s work. But, Colin supposed, it really didn’t matter. Sherlock Holmes was not the topic of their discussion. _They_ were. Sliding over on the couch, Colin took Anne’s hand between his and stroked his thumb over her palm. She’d liked when he’d done that in the past and maybe it would bring pleasant memories to mind.

“You can’t assume he’ll change,” Colin told her quietly. “Greg is as he always has been. Probably as he always will be. His job is important and so are the girls. You’ve seen where his priorities lie, just as I have, and you’re not one of them. He may love you and you him but you are neglected with him, Anne.”

“Colin, he’s my husband,” Anne replied, staring down at their joined hands. His touch felt good, felt right, but Anne had made her decision. A hundred reasons why she should change it flashed through her mind but Anne shook them away. “I wasn’t trying as hard as I should have, as hard as he was. I ran away when things got difficult. When I didn’t get what I wanted, everything I wanted, I found someone else. Much as I love you and the time we had together, I shouldn’t have done it. I can be happy with Greg. I was before and I think I can be again.”

“Please, please reconsider,” Colin pleaded, unable to stop the desperation that bled into his voice. He could feel his heart breaking while they talked. And, so far, nothing he said could stop it. “You can be happy with me. I know you will be. After all, why did you start this affair if there wasn’t something broken in your relationship? It won’t be mended just because you end things with me. You know I’m ready to take that next step with you. You saw the ring.”

“I know and I’m sorry. I can’t say it enough but I am,” Anne sighed, gently pulling her hand out of Colin’s. She met his eyes, knowing that tears were building in both of them but unable to stop it. What she saw on his face broke her heart. “We need to end this. I know you wanted us to get married. Believe me, it sounds wonderful. But I need to try and save my current marriage. I owe that to Greg and to myself.”

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind?” Colin asked, a tear falling down his cheek. He had pulled his hands back when Anne took hers away and squeezed at his knees. It kept him grounded, reminded Colin that this really was happening much as he wished it was a nightmare. “There’s nothing I can say to convince you to stay with me? After everything we shared?”

“No, I’m not going to change my mind,” Anne replied sadly, dropping her head and feeling tears drop onto her hands. “This was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever made, Colin. You have no idea. But I believe its the right thing to do. Can you understand that?”

“I can understand it but I don’t like it,” Colin muttered, sliding back over to the end of the couch. A quick break would be better now. He didn’t think he could handle Anne in the house much longer. As it was, Colin was hanging on to his calmness with the barest shreds of his fingernails. “I think then that we shouldn’t see each other at all. For a while at least. Make sure that you mean what you say. It allows both of us to move on. Because I won’t wait for you, Anne. I can’t. If you truly mean to end everything between us, I need to live my life. I’m not going to spend it alone wondering if you’ll choose me eventually.”

“I have to agree,” Anne said, voice dropping to just barely above a whisper. That hurt, more than she could have believed. Though it was logical and nothing more than what Anne should have expected. Even if she’d shied away from this possibility when considering the possible outcomes. Of its own accord, Anne’s hand reached out to Colin but stopped halfway there. She let it drop to the couch, fingers lax. No more touching now. It was better that way. And if she told herself that often enough, perhaps she’d come to believe it. “So I suppose this is goodbye. I want you to be happy, Colin. I would never ask you to wait for me. Find someone who makes you happy, someone free to love you and spend her life with you.”

“Goodbye, Anne,” Colin said morosely, more tears falling down his cheeks. “I hope you’ll understand if I don’t see you out. I hope you find your own happiness. But I have to say this. I don’t believe that you’ll find it with Greg.”

Anne opened her mouth to say something, anything, to erase the pain and sorrow in Colin’s voice. But there was nothing now, nothing she _could_ say, that would help. She stood and watched Colin for a few moments. Then, Anne turned and walked to the door. Hand on the knob, Anne glanced back one more time. Colin was still sitting on the couch, his shoulders bowed. He was trembling, shoulders shaking as if he was trying to hold back sobs. Anne felt a whimper rattle in her throat. Nothing she could do. Opening the door and stepping out, Anne felt as if part of her world was being ripped away. She closed the door quietly and walked down to her car, tears flowing down her cheeks. Anne couldn’t stop the tears and didn’t bother to try. Once she was safely in the car, Anne let the broken sobs out as she cried. She rested her arms on the steering wheel and buried her face in them. Nothing she could do, never anything she could do.

Anne wasn’t sure how long she cried, huddled against her crossed arms on the steering wheel. Sobs wracked her body and long whimpering moans escaped her lips. This was so much worse than she thought, hurt so much worse than she could have expected. It wasn’t until now, now that she’d let him go, that Anne realized how much she truly loved Colin. Yet, it still didn’t change her decision. It was a strength, or sometimes a flaw, that Anne didn’t change her mind once she’d decided on a path. A small voice wondered whether she hadn’t made the wrong decision but Anne resolutely quashed it. There was no going back now. Colin was no longer part of her life. Greg was. Slowly quieting her sobs, Anne raised her head and sat back. She felt purged, as if she’d cried all the pain out. Well, maybe not all but a good portion. Anne knew that she was going to feel this for a long time. But now was the time to head home, to start patching things between her and Greg.

\-------------------------------------------------------------

It took more effort than Anne had expected but she eventually patched her and Greg’s relationship back together. She didn’t do it alone; Greg understood that their marriage was a melding of partners, of two people working towards the same goal. He couldn’t let her do all the work. Splitting the work, and the shifts, with Dimmock helped. Greg was able to make it home by dinnertime most nights now. They were closer but there was still a distance between them, as if Greg was afraid to let himself believe completely that they were better. Anne understood and tried to be as patient as she could. After all, Greg still didn’t know that she’d had an affair. Whatever knowledge might be in his eyes, Anne still acted as if Greg didn’t know. Greg did the same and a peace was silently called.

Of course, that peace only existed in the Lestrade household. In the world, and at New Scotland Yard, violence and hate still raged. There were still murders, still people kidnapped. And with many cases, Greg needed Sherlock’s help. Those cases were all solved quickly, allowing Greg more time with his family. Yet still, Anne would hear nothing about Sherlock. Nothing about his cases, about the man, or about John once she’d learned John was Sherlock’s best friend. Greg couldn’t understand why but respected Anne’s wishes. After all, the peace between them was still fragile and there was no need to test it just yet.

Even though it took a little time, Greg and Mycroft’s friendship continued to progress. There was awkwardness the first night after Greg’s drunk actions, of course. But music and the connection that grew when they played together chipped it away. The second time Greg and Mycroft improvised music was even better than the first. They’d gotten a chance to see what the other could do and ran with it. Mycroft took the main melody that night, making the piano sing. Greg followed, fingers dancing over the strings of his guitar. It was perfect and Greg went home smiling that night. After that, most of the time they spent together was playing their instruments. Of course, there were pub nights and sometimes movie nights. Or even just walking around London discussing current events or Greg’s daughters or even, rarely, Sherlock and John. Greg still hadn’t told Mycroft that Sherlock and John had convinced him to seek out Mycroft’s friendship to begin with. After that first night, it didn’t really matter anymore. Greg really did want a friend, had felt loneliness and sorrow at the time. Mycroft eased that in a way the girls and even Anne couldn’t. And if Greg was careful with how much he drank when they did go out to the pub, Mycroft never remarked on it. Greg was grateful for that. He wasn’t sure how he’d reply if Mycroft had.

But slowly, the good was chipped away at. More puzzling cases crossed Greg’s desk, some seemingly impossible. Sherlock worked through them doggedly, the high he felt evident with each solution. Each time, Greg was reminded forcibly of the few times Sherlock had stumbled to a crime scene after just having shot up. There was the same... frantic glee that he’d had with the drugs. It would have worried him had John not been there. John somehow grounded Sherlock, kept the high from solving the cases enough by providing pure and unadulterated admiration and praise. Eventually, Sherlock seemed to drink in that praise nearly as much as the high he got when he solved cases. And at the end of each of the most tangled cases was a name: Moriarty. Those cases made Sherlock Holmes a household name and newspapers were full of stories of the genius detective. Worry pricked at Greg each time he saw a new article. For every rise there was always going to be a fall. He only hoped that when the media tired of Sherlock, they would leave him alone to live his life.

Slowly, inevitably, like dominoes falling as each fell into the next in line, the plan worked. The final plan, as it were. And there was nothing that Greg could do to stop it. The most frightening thing, even after it all fell out, was that there was nothing _Mycroft_ could have done to stop it, though he’d tried. And if the British Government, as Greg had heard him referred to a few times, couldn’t do anything, what chance had an inspector just trying to do the right thing? When the dust settled, as it would even after the most riotous of earthquakes, Greg’s life had changed into something he didn’t quite recognize anymore. And his part in Sherlock’s fall haunted him. If he had just been a little faster, a little smarter, he might have been able to head off Donovan’s suspicions. Greg knew the woman didn’t trust Sherlock and believed the man capable of anything. Yet she was good at her job and that’s why Greg kept her in his division. There was no reason to transfer her and no way to get her to trust Sherlock. Her self-satisfied looks any time Greg glanced at Donovan only fanned the flames of castigation that Greg carried around now. Perhaps time would eventually ease that and let him move past the pain. There was only one way to find out and Greg steeled himself for the long path. At least he had his family and a friend in Mycroft and John. He knew he would need it.


	4. Chapter 4

What’s done is done Greg reminded himself yet again as he stared at the closet of an office he occupied now. It was a month now since the world had flipped upside down and Sherlock committed suicide. That was something Greg had never believed the man capable of. Sherlock had been brilliant and obsessed with proving that brilliance. And, without doubt, Sherlock was as brilliant as he appeared. Greg didn’t believe that Sherlock had created the cases he’d worked on. After all, it was usually Greg’s choice whether to call the detective in or not. There was no way Sherlock could guarantee he’d be called in on the right cases.

The fallout from the falling dominoes included Greg as well. As the man who brought Sherlock in on so many cases, Greg was the scapegoat sacrificed to the papers by New Scotland Yard. It didn’t matter that his solve rate was the highest of anyone else’s, except perhaps Dimmock who worked with Sherlock every once in a while. He supposed he was lucky that he hadn’t been fired outright. Those solved cases counted for _something_. Yet Greg had been shunted off to the back end of nowhere, to a department on the very outskirts of London. He didn’t have to move, thankfully, but his commute in was a half hour longer. Demotion followed the transfer and now he was working as the lowest man on the totem pole in his new department. The others had delighted in giving him the grunt work, everything they hated doing. Which, usually, meant paperwork. It was a sad fact of police work that paperwork accompanied everything they did.

Checking his watch for what felt like the hundredth time today, Greg saw that it was nearly time to head home. He finished up the report he was working on and saved it. Filling out reports by computer saved a lot of time and hassle, Greg had to admit. Anne had kept him sane after all this, kept him moving forward even when Greg just wanted to sit down and give up. It was partially his fault and that was something Greg was never going to forgive or forget. Surprisingly, Anne had merely nodded when he’d told her about the demotion and subsequent pay drop. Things were going to be tight for a while but it could be done. There would be a few less luxuries but the girls would be able to stay in their school. That was important; Greg wanted the best for Sophia and Elizabeth and Anne agreed.

Shutting down his computer, Greg stretched his arms above his head and heard his shoulders pop. He’d been sitting here for hours catching up on paperwork for the division and his body was reminding him he wasn’t in his twenties anymore. Though the one advantage that came from his demotion was getting home for dinner every night. Greg even managed to sleep through the night most of the week as he wasn’t called in for every case that came through. He’d gotten used to the new routine but, in the recesses of his own mind, admitted that he missed the rank. Missed the responsibility and the chase and the power. But all that was behind him now. All because of a mistake and the doubts of the people he worked with.

Greg walked out of the building still buttoning up his coat. The sky was filled with clouds, many of which were a dark gray that seemed to threaten rain. Flipping up his collar against a gust of wind that whipped around the corner, Greg headed to his car. He was actually looking forward to tonight. It was the first night since everything had happened that he and Anne had a night to themselves. The girls were having a sleepover at a friend’s house and Anne was making dinner for them both. It reminded Greg of when they were first married and he whistled happily as he drove home.

“Dinner’s almost done, dear,” Anne said, smiling when Greg walked into the kitchen. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, smiling back. 

“Smells wonderful,” Greg told her, sniffing appreciatively. “You decide on steak? And are those garlic mashed potatoes I smell?”

“I did and it is,” Anne replied, stepping out of Greg’s arms to stir the vegetables boiling on the stove. “And these are brussels sprouts. Once they’re done, I’ve got some cheese we can melt over the top.”

“Sounds perfect. Let me go clean up a bit and I’ll set the table,” Greg offered, kissing Anne’s forehead before he walked away. Anne nodded and Greg washed his hands in the bathroom down the hallway. Once that was finished, and he made sure he looked all right in the mirror, Greg came back and set the table. Anne had set the potatoes and the steaks in the middle and the smell was so very tempting. He sat down and watched Anne, smiling as she moved about the kitchen. Once the brussels sprouts were done boiling, she drained them and sprinkled cheese over the top. Then, it was into the microwave just long enough for the cheese to melt.

“And voila,” Anne said, setting the brussels sprouts on the table. She sat down across from Greg and took his hand, twining their fingers together. “Dinner is served.”

“This is wonderful, honey,” Greg replied, squeezing her hand. “Thank you. I know this past month has been difficult on you.”

“It’s all right, Greg. We’ll get through it,” Anne said, pasting on a smile and holding it tight. If she were being honest, she had hated it. The drop in pay, the earlier mornings for Greg. Anne had come to like the money Greg had brought in before, the luxuries they could afford. It grated, now, that she couldn’t have any of that anymore. “It’ll just take some time. Things will get better.”

While they ate, Greg turned the conversation to more pleasant subjects. Sophia and Elizabeth were a large part; both girls were active in school clubs, Sophia in volleyball and Elizabeth in choir, and there was an event coming up for both of them. Anne told jokes to keep Greg laughing and he described a few of his new coworkers. He was surprised Anne was willing to listen but Greg supposed it was because they were new people. And Sherlock was... gone. It made Greg’s throat tighten to think of that and he had to cover it by taking a drink of the wine Anne had chosen to go with their meal. Dinner segued into cuddling on the couch while an old movie played in the background. Neither concentrated on it, more concerned with exchanging kisses and little breaths of laughter. And they ended the night in bed. Greg was happier than he could remember during the whole last month and could only hope that this good fortune would continue.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft surveyed his desk, sighing at the familiar sight there. It seemed that no matter how many papers he reviewed and signed, how many problems he solved, there were always a hundred more to take their place. He almost couldn’t remember the last time his desk had been completely clear. And, of course, the man sitting across from him brought his own army of problems. Sherlock smirked at Mycroft, following his thoughts by the expression on his face.

“I may be problematic but at least I’m alive,” Sherlock said dryly, arching an eyebrow at Mycroft. “Would you rather I were dead?”

“Not at all, Sherlock, and you know it,” Mycroft sighed again, rolling his shoulders to ease some of the tension. Even though it had been a month since Sherlock faked his death, things kept piling up. “What I don’t understand is why it must be you who goes after this group Moriarty claims he put together. Even with the time he spent in my custody, he never mentioned anything about it. And I’m sure he would have.”

“Moriarty told you exactly what he wanted to and no more,” Sherlock replied dismissively, slashing a hand through the air. “He got what he wanted to convince the world I was a fraud. Moriarty also put me in the perfect permission to hunt down his group. I’m dead, Mycroft. I can go places that you can’t.”

“You’re going to go alone?” Mycroft asked, making the sentence a question even though he knew Sherlock had no intentions of taking anyone with him. But he wanted to make Sherlock _think_ , to remember who he was leaving behind. “You are good, Sherlock, but even you can’t watch your back every single hour of every single day.”

“Who do you propose I take with me then?” Sherlock snapped irritably, glaring at Mycroft. “Molly? She’s the only other one who knows I’m alive and she’d be useless. She’d get killed and I’m not repaying her with death.”

“That’s not who I meant and you know it, little brother,” Mycroft replied, keeping calm even though it cost him. Grinding his teeth together only increased the headache pounding between his temples so Mycroft deliberately took a deep breath and unlocked his jaw. “There is one person you know, one who’s been torn apart by this whole debacle, who has the skills and the will to help you. Why let him suffer like this?”

“Why?” Sherlock repeated softly, eyes taking on a distant cast. “Because John is important. So is Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. If any of them know I’m alive, the sniper Moriarty put on them will kill them. I don’t want to lose them. John will have to live with his grief until my work is done and they’re all safe.”

“If you believe that has to be the way it has to be,” Mycroft said, though it rankled. He didn’t like the idea of Sherlock going after criminals and killers by himself. “I can help you from here. Research, information, a new identity if you need it. Is there anything else you can think of?”

“Not at the moment, though some supplies would be handy,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. “Clothes, not something I would normally wear, a couple untraceable guns. And a passport.”

“That all can be arranged,” Mycroft smiled, pulling out his phone and sending a quick text to Anthea. She would have everything in hand before Sherlock left. “I do have one name for you, one that Moriarty let slip. Moran. Apparently, he was a soldier that was dishonorably discharged. A sniper and one with a few too many kills that he hadn’t been assigned. He fell off the grid a few months after the discharge. I believe that’s when he started to work for Moriarty.”

“He may be the most dangerous then,” Sherlock mused, tapping at his lips. His eyes were focused on a point on the wall over Mycroft’s shoulder, as if seeing plans and information unfold in the air. “Probably the one assigned to John, though I can’t assume anything.”

“It’s better not to assume,” Mycroft agreed. “Especially with a man like Moriarty. He could have laid a hundred false trails in the time he’d been planning this. I have to admit, I have a grudging respect for the man.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply, nodding. He brought his focus back to Mycroft, quicksilver eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit as he studied his brother. Mycroft appeared to have most of his old strength back, shoulders set. Of course, there was still a bit of sadness in his eyes but that could be expected. “I understand you’ve made a friend in the last year or so. John told me you and Lestrade were spending a lot of time together.”

“We have become friends, yes,” Mycroft answered slowly, too used to Sherlock to be surprised by this non sequitur. Though the subject of it was surprising. Since when did Sherlock care about his life or friends? “It’s been pleasant, actually. Why do you mention it?”

“You seem... happier, less stressed,” Sherlock said, sweeping his gaze up and down Mycroft in obvious appraisal. “Happier than I’ve seen you in a while. You were starting to worry me, actually. It looked like you were cracking under the strain.”

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for several seconds, speechless. He still didn’t like the feeling. It was actually impressive and surprising that Sherlock had bothered to deduce that, had cared enough to mention it now. Then again, Sherlock had always fought against the saying Mycroft had finally given up. Sherlock had always fought against everything their father tried to teach them while Mycroft had tried to follow it. He’d tried to be the perfect son to keep their father’s attention on him and not on Sherlock. Their childhoods had molded them into the men they were now but Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock had been able to escape much of their father’s influence. God knew, it had taken him years to shake off most of it. Yet Mycroft was still thankful for that. Sherlock had grown into a great man and, with John’s influence, a good one.

“I was, difficult as that is to admit,” Mycroft said softly, looking away from Sherlock. He couldn’t meet those eyes. They were far too knowing right now. “Greg’s friendship has helped. It finally convinced me that I couldn’t live with father’s doctrine of caring is not an advantage.”

Sherlock’s eyes darkened at mention of their father. He wouldn’t quite say he hated the man but he despised him, certainly. It had been a relief the day their mother had called to say he’d passed away. And Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to feel any guilt at all over that relief. To hear Mycroft say he’d finally let go of that ridiculous saying made Sherlock happy. One of the things Sherlock had learned from John was that caring was a strength that nothing else could equal. Under the strain of events that might break someone, they could move on and deal with it with the support of friends and family.

“Good,” Sherlock said simply, nodding at Mycroft. “I’ve observed Lestrade a few times and he appears to be grieving. You could help him through it.”

“I will help him as much as he allows,” Mycroft promised. A flash of the night Greg had come to his home drunk passed through his mind. It sent a thrill through Mycroft before he managed to push the thought away. That wasn’t something Sherlock needed to know. A discreet knock on his door interrupted what Mycroft was going to say next. Anthea came in, a small box in her hands rather than her usual phone. She set it on Mycroft’s desk, raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, and left when he nodded. She hadn’t even glanced at Sherlock, though Mycroft knew Anthea had taken in every detail.

“There you go,” Mycroft said, pushing the box towards Sherlock. It was heavier than it looked but it was about right for two guns and extra clips. “There will be a passport in there as well. Make good use of it and keep me apprised of where you are going. I can’t help if I don’t know where you are.”

“You’re not my babysitter, Mycroft,” Sherlock grumbled though there was no real heat in it. He opened the box and looked through the contents quickly. Everything he would need appeared to be included. “What about clothes? I don’t exactly have access to my money anymore.”

“Will be dropped off at Molly’s flat,” Mycroft explained smoothly. “I was able to give Anthea your size and she has arranged for a suitable array to be delivered. It won’t be what you’re used to but no one should recognize you in them.”

“That’s the whole point. And thank you,” Sherlock said, standing and picking up the box. He snugged it under one arm and met Mycroft’s eyes again. “Well, I suppose I’ll wish you good luck then. Just do me a favor and watch over John. Don’t let him do anything... impulsive.”

“Of course, as much as I can,” Mycroft nodded, suppressing a sigh. “I don’t think John is going to be too happy to see me for the foreseeable future. He knows the role I played in giving Moriarty the information he needed.”

Sherlock nodded and walked out, everything that needed to be said having been said. The butlers, at least that’s what Sherlock called them in his head since he wasn’t sure what their actual title was, merely watched him as he walked. Sherlock had been here before and knew the rules, as well as the way out. So far, his plan for Mycroft and Lestrade was working though Sherlock was a bit surprised Lestrade was still with his wife. He’d seemed happier in the few months before Sherlock had to fall and Sherlock could only assume that Lestrade’s wife had stopped cheating. For now at least. A quick cab ride later, Sherlock was at Molly’s flat desultorily pawing through the selection of clothes Anthea had had delivered. He sneered at it but had to admit Mycroft was right. No one would ever expect to see Sherlock Holmes in any of these ragged jeans and t-shirts.

After Sherlock left, Mycroft paged through some reports. He couldn’t make himself actually work, though, exhaustion weighing him down. In the past week, he had slept about three hours each night, something coming up that had to be dealt with. Most of it was Sherlock but there were agents and connections that had to be tended. His phone interrupted him and Mycroft smiled as he saw Greg’s name on the display. Talking with the man always cheered him up and if his mind wandered to certain lips and the sound of panting against his skin, well, Greg didn’t need to know. There was no way Mycroft would erase that memory even if he could.

“Greg, hello,” Mycroft greeted him. “What occasions this call?”

“Hi, Mycroft. I was wondering if you want to have another pub night?” Greg asked, trying to stop the yawn that stretched his mouth and failing miserably. He’d been at work since about six this morning and it was nearly four. “I need something happy right now.”

“Is something wrong?” Mycroft asked, then rolled his eyes at the question. Of course there was; Greg was still grieving. “Other than the obvious, I mean.”

“Not really, no,” Greg replied, sighing as the grief ripped at him again. “I was hoping that you might consider... sharing your memories of him. I only knew him for eight years or so and only as close as Sherlock would allow me to get. And then maybe forget the past month in music or a game.”

“I can understand that,” Mycroft said sympathetically. “I can’t tonight, far too much work demanding my attention. How about tomorrow? Maybe come over to my flat and we can have a few beers if you like. It might be better to talk without onlookers.”

“That actually works really well for me,” Greg said, smiling. Mycroft could hear it through the phone and couldn’t help smiling. “After work I think I’m going to collapse in bed. See you tomorrow? I’ll bring over some beer. It’s fair after all.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Mycroft replied, smile widening just a little bit. Greg had been busy for the past month, as had he, and he hadn’t seen the other man as often as he would have liked. “Don’t push yourself too hard Greg. You don’t want to work yourself to death.”

“I could say the same to you,” Greg laughed. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye,” Mycroft replied, a little wistfully. He told himself after Greg had hung up that he could deal with only friendship. He really could. But that didn’t stop Mycroft from wishing for more. He supposed it was the human condition to fantasize and hope for more than what was had. Mycroft would take friendship over nothing any day, though. Especially with how easy it was to spend time with Greg, to talk to him. And the music. The music was rapturous and Mycroft could admit to himself that he pushed for playing rather than going out to the pub. He’d only had this level of connection with someone once before and she had died in a car accident many years ago. Sometimes in his dreams, Mycroft could still hear the delicate strains of a flute. Tomorrow would be soon enough, though, to see Greg and have that connection again. Even if he had to flay both of their souls recounting stories of Sherlock. The pain would come before recovery, though what pained Mycroft was keeping the secret that Sherlock still lived. He made a promise to himself that if there was any way to let Greg know Sherlock was alive without harming him, he would. It was the least Mycroft could do to help ease his pain.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Six months. For six long months, Anne struggled to be the perfect wife. It was good to feel that connection again with Greg, the love they had. But there was still something missing. Anne craved the thrill of something new, the adventure of it, the danger of getting caught. Everything that made her feel completely alive. She’d gotten used to the feeling over the years she’d been having affairs. Some were short. Some were just little things that lasted one night or at most a week. Colin was the closest Anne had come to actually leaving Greg. But she loved Greg and, if she was being brutally honest with herself, Anne rather enjoyed the convenience his paycheck gave her. Towards the end of her relationship with Colin, that paycheck had actually been the primary reason she stayed. It wasn’t the reason she could give Colin of course, and Anne wasn’t lying with the reasons she did give, but it was the simple truth. As long as Greg never caught on, and Anne had made sure he didn’t, she pursued her own interests and was the good wife when he needed it.

But now, now she was chafing under the restrictions Greg’s demotion and paycut had put on her. The girls didn’t notice anything, really, other than a few less trips to the movies or mini vacations. Anne had agreed that Sophia and Elizabeth should be affected as little as possible. Trying to be happy with Greg wasn’t difficult. It was the lack of everything else that troubled Anne. They’d tried spicing things up in their relationship early on in their marriage. Unfortunately, that had led to a lot of giggling while trying to pretend to be someone different. Roleplaying was not for them. Anne sighed as she looked up from the book she was trying to read. She’d been on the same page for about ten minutes now and not a word had stayed in her mind. While Anne stuck to a decision once she’d made it, if time proved that decision to be wrong or poorly made, she had absolutely no problem changing the decision. After all, why stay any more unhappy than she needed to be.

With only a twinge of guilt, Anne set her book on her knees and thought about her options. It was doubtful Colin would be willing to consider taking up their relationship where they’d left off; he’d made it clear that her goodbye was the end between them. Perhaps it was better that way; Greg had seemed to have too much knowledge, be a little too knowing whenever Colin was in the same room with them. But there were always others. Other men, other interesting pursuits that could occupy her time. She was practiced at it, after all. Greg had not known for years and he wouldn’t know now. A grin pulled at Anne’s lips as she contemplated where she might go to find a new adventure. Her heart beat faster and adrenaline started pulsing through her veins. This was going to be fun. And she could still be a good wife to Greg. Anne had been pulling this double life off for years and had no doubt she could continue to do so. What Greg didn’t know wouldn’t hurt either of them.

The next night, after claiming she was joining a book club, Anne took a cab to a club she’d found near central London. She rather enjoyed the noise and the crush of people, having spent time in here before. This was where she and Colin would go when they wanted to go dancing. There were always desperate and lonely people on the prowl for others to spend a few hours of ecstasy with. Even though she hadn’t done anything of the sort for nearly a year now, Anne knew exactly how to pick and choose to get what she wanted. Tonight, she wanted the flash, the quick and burning passion that flared between two strangers who just wanted to forget themselves. After ordering a drink and casually looking around the place while sipping it, Anne had narrowed the possibilities down to a couple of handsome men. One was dark haired and one light though both had piercing dark eyes. And both were tall, something Anne especially looked for. Now just to see who would approach her first. Anne gave both men a lazy smile full of promise and waited.

The blond approached her first, stalking through the crowd and settling in between her and the man on a stool next to her. He merely looked at the man when he started to complain and turned his attention back to Anne. A grin spread across his face, answering Anne’s smile. Holding out a hand, the blond said, “Jason. You are one of the prettiest women here, you know.”

“Anne. And just one of?” Anne replied, laughing to show the joke in her question as she took his hand. “Nice to meet you Jason.”

“And you,” Jason said, stroking his thumb over the pulse in her wrist. “I may have been a little hasty, I agree. You may just be the prettiest woman here. The music’s a little loud for decent conversation. Want to get out of here and go someplace quieter?”

“Just what I was thinking,” Anne said, satisfaction coating each word. She let her fingers trail over Jason’s hand as she pulled away and took a final sip of his drink. “How about your place?”

“Perfect. I’m just a couple streets over,” Jason replied, taking Anne’s arm and looping it through his. They made their way through the club, the dark haired guy grimacing at the obvious hook-up he’d lost out on. Maybe next time, Anne thought. The walk was quick once they were out in the cool night air and Anne let herself relax into Jason’s side. The thrill was pounding through her veins and anticipation rumbled in her belly. She was going to enjoy tonight.

\-----------------------------------------------

Sherlock grimaced as he watched Anne walk away with some blond guy. He could read exactly what each was thinking in their body language and glances and it frustrated him that Lestrade was still with her. She’d been doing so well for the last six months but now, Sherlock was going to intervene. It was time to put step two of his plan into place and, luckily, since he’d taken out Lestrade’s assigned sniper just a few days ago, Sherlock could reveal his being alive to Lestrade. And try to convince the man to keep everything from Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t need more lectures about what he was doing from his older brother and he certainly didn’t want Mycroft to find out he was masterminding this whole delicate dance. At least not until the end was reached.

Sherlock swept his eyes over Anne and the blond guy one more time before they disappeared into an apartment building about halfway down the street. This was going to be a one night thing or Sherlock would give up deducing everything forever. He shook his head and started walking though he had no destination in mind just yet. Before he could do anything with Lestrade, though, Sherlock had to make sure this was more than a one night thing. Anne could probably talk her way out of it if it was. That would throw a convenient spike into his plans and that would never do.

Sherlock pulled himself out of his musings to look around the street. His treacherous feet had taken him dangerously close to Baker Street. To John. Sherlock missed his best friend, more than he would have ever expected. He stopped at the head of the street, staring down at the flat they’d shared. Sighing, Sherlock turned his back on the street and walked away as fast as his feet could carry him. He wasn’t quite running but it was close. It was far too dangerous to see John right now, especially as Sherlock wasn’t sure he could stay away from the best friend he’d ever had. Best to go back to his little, dingy flat and plan what he could do for Lestrade and Mycroft. He was stuck on Moriarty’s little group until Mycroft teased out some hint of where the second sniper had gone.

About a month later, with still no word on where the second sniper or Moran were, Sherlock found himself following Anne Lestrade again. After the first blond man, who she had indeed not seen again, she had gone to three more guy’s flats before finally seeming to settle on this one. In the past two weeks, she’d gone to his flat six times that Sherlock was sure of. The man actually vaguely reminded him of Colin, with short dark hair, brown eyes, and a tall, muscled build. Anne seemed to enjoy the whole situation, looking around and laughing as if waiting for someone to catch her. It had taken every shred of Sherlock’s patience to allow everything to proceed to this point but now considered himself amply rewarded. If he hurried, he could get Lestrade and convince him that Anne wasn’t worth his time anymore.

Sherlock flagged down a cab and gave the cabbie Lestrade’s address. He had to hope Lestrade was home as he wasn’t able to keep a tab on him while following Anne at the same time. Using his homeless network was far too risky. He fidgeted and twitched in his seat as he watched the street roll by, wishing the car could move faster. When the cab pulled up outside Lestrade’s home, Sherlock handed a few bills over and told the man to wait. The cabbie shrugged and pulled out a book as Sherlock bounded up the sidewalk to the door. He knocked on it, three sharp knocks, and waited impatiently.

Greg wasn’t expecting anyone this evening and was sitting on the couch eating a slice of pizza while watching crap telly. He was the only one home and was enjoying having a bit of peace and quiet. He started at the knocks and sighed. So much for peace and quiet. Eating the last bit of his pizza and getting up, Greg made his way to the door and peeked out the peephole. He didn’t recognize the man standing there but something tickled at his memory. Those eyes... But it couldn’t be. He was just imagining things because he still missed the brilliant and irascible madman who had worked on cases with him. Standing here staring wasn’t answering any of the questions running through his mind so Greg took a deep breath and opened the door.

“Can I help you?” he asked, pitching his voice a little cold.

“It’s more that I can help you, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, unable to stop a small smirk at Lestrade’s reaction. “Come on, hurry. No time to explain so I’ll give you the basics: no I’m not dead and yes you need to listen to me.”

“Sherlock?” Lestrade gasped, mouth gaping open in shock. That was his voice and how he spoke but how? “Why are you dressed like that? Ragged clothes with paint stains don’t suit you.”

“Walk and talk, Lestrade, walk and talk,” Sherlock replied, taking Greg’s arm and pulling him through the door. Lestrade twisted and managed to close it before allowing Sherlock to draw him down to the cab. None of this made sense, least of all Sherlock’s apparent resurrection. “You need to see something. I suppose I’m sorry for it but it needs to be done.”

“You suppose? What the hell is going on here, Sherlock?” Greg snapped, stopping at the cab and pulling his arm from Sherlock’s grip. “You need to explain. Now.”

“In the cab,” Sherlock said irritably, glaring at Greg before sliding into the cab. He gestured imperiously and Greg sighed before getting in himself. At least this was interesting and a change from the monotony his job had become. “Good. Now, as you can see I’m alive. The fall was a trick. There are snipers targeting people in my life and I had to die to keep them from killing those people. I dealt with the sniper assigned to you so I can tell you I’m alive. As to why, it’s your wife. There’s something you need to see.”

“My wife?” Greg repeated, his mouth dropping open at the little speech Sherlock gave. He was impressed at how quickly Sherlock could speak without tripping over his words. “What do you care, Sherlock? I mean, really? What could Anne possibly be doing that I need to see? She’s at a book club thing tonight.”

“Club yes, at first. Book not so much,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. He refused to say anymore which annoyed Greg to no end. Normally, Sherlock couldn’t get the words out fast enough to explain something, especially when it was something he’d deduced. Anne had been going to her book club fairly regularly over the past month and, come to think of it, Greg had never actually seen her with a book she might be reading for the club. What was going on with all this. Knots formed in his stomach at the possibilities. Greg wasn’t an idiot and if Anne were lying...

“I don’t think I want to know,” Greg muttered softly as they cab pulled to a stop on a quiet street. They’d passed a couple clubs on the way and that just made Greg worry even more. The knots multiplied when Sherlock shot him a sympathetic look before paying the cabbie. _Sherlock!_. That was a very strange sight, one that made Greg fidget uncomfortably.

“You have to,” Sherlock said simply as he got out and waited for Greg. The flat Anne and her new lover were in was on the second floor and the front door to the building wasn’t locked. Once he was sure Greg was following, Sherlock stalked up to the door and slipped inside. He hurried up the steps, hoping that Anne was still in the flat. It had only taken him a total of about 20 minutes to get Lestrade and come back. Her previous visits with the man had taken far longer. “I am sorry for this, Greg.”

“What are you going to show me?” Greg asked, a thread of worry in his voice. Sherlock _never_ called him by his first name. This had to be something horrible. Greg only hoped it wasn’t a dead body. Sherlock just shook his head and opened the door slowly, making sure to be absolutely quiet. Greg took a deep breath and followed. Laughter flowed out of the apartment and gasps that made it obvious what the occupants were doing. A woman’s voice laughed out a name and Greg started. Was that _Anne_? Pushing past Sherlock, Greg followed the voices into a bedroom. Anne was straddling a man’s lap, fingers tangled in his dark hair. They were both topless and the man was busy working at the clasps on Anne’s bra. He must have let out a gasp or made some noise because the guy looked up suddenly and met Greg’s eyes. Anne sat back, confused, before turning to see what he was looking at.

“Greg?” Anne gasped, hands flying to her shirt on the bed next to them. Not needing to see anything more, Greg backed out quietly and walked out of the flat, letting Sherlock decide to follow or not. There was no point in getting into a confrontation right now so Greg left the building quickly.

“Well?” Sherlock asked quietly once they were back outside. There was no sign of the cabbie as Sherlock hadn’t told him to wait this time.

“Well? That’s all you can say right now?” Greg snapped, pain in his voice. “You just brought me to the flat my wife is having an affair in, let me walk in on that, and all you can do is ask “well”? God help me, Sherlock, do you even have a heart?”

“Better pain now than pain for the next however long you would be with her,” Sherlock replied quietly, keeping pace easily with Greg. There were footsteps behind them but neither man stopped. Sherlock glanced back to see Anne stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, thankfully in her shirt. “Do you really want to continue being the cuckold here, Lestrade?”

“Just... just leave me alone for tonight,” Greg snapped, flagging down a cab. He glared at Sherlock when the other man moved to get in after him. “I can’t thank you for this, Sherlock, maybe not ever. But we’ll see if it was the right thing to do.”

Sherlock stepped back quickly as Greg slammed the door. The hem of his shirt had nearly been caught by it. Watching the cab drive off sympathetically, Sherlock shook his head. Just like with Molly, his version of kindness had been misunderstood. But this may turn out better than Molly’s relationship with Jim. After all, Jim had been a criminal mastermind intent on using Molly to get closer to him. Anne was nothing like that. Footsteps and panting breaths sounded behind Sherlock as Anne caught up to him. She stopped and breathed heavily for a few seconds, hands on her knees, before straightening and glaring at Sherlock.

“I don’t know who you are but I know you’re involved in this,” Anne accused, glaring for all she was worth. “What gave you the right to barge in on my life?”

Sherlock just shrugged and turned, making sure that Anne never got a clear look at his face. It wouldn’t do for her to recognize him, after all. Stalking away was the only thing Sherlock could do; he’d gotten involved enough and the rest was up to Lestrade. Anne followed for a bit but Sherlock lost her quickly in alleys and side streets. He was willing to bet no one knew London the way he did. A couple streets later, Sherlock flagged down his own cab and directed the man to the flat he stayed in while in London. Now was the time for more patience, much as Sherlock chafed at the time spent. Lestrade had to take the next step and nothing could happen until then.

\-----------------------------------------------------

“Greg can we talk about this?” Anne asked, tired of the silent treatment she’d been getting. “It’s been a week. And you have no excuses this time. We’re alone in the house today. No one to interrupt us.”

“You really want to discuss what happened?” Greg asked instead of answering her question. It still twisted his belly into knots thinking about what Sherlock had had him walk in on. “Are you _sure_ you want to do that, considering what direction that conversation is likely going to go?”

“Yes, I’m sure. We can’t avoid it forever,” Anne sighed, settling into the chair across from Greg. She propped her elbows on the table and met Greg’s eyes. “It happened and we should talk about it.”

“Fine. Explain to me how you found yourself in... that situation,” Greg said tonelessly, slipping into an interrogator mindset. It hurt less to distance himself, pretend it had happened to someone else. For now, at least.

“It’s difficult, Greg,” Anne sighed, looking away and twisting her fingers together. She recognized that cold voice from a few times she’d heard him questioning people and it was weird to hear it directed at her. Of course, from his point of view, it was probably completely warranted. “It’s nothing you did. Or didn’t do. I hope you believe that. It’s more of what I want, maybe even need.”

“All right, I’ll bite,” Greg said when Anne stopped talking and looked away. “What do you need that you need to have an affair to get?”

“The... the danger, the thrill of something new,” Anne replied. She settled back in her chair, shoulders slumping as Greg continued to regard her as a stranger. “I love you, I hope you believe that. But there’s a part of me that wants more.”

“How long have you been “looking for something new”?” Greg asked, putting a sarcastic twist to her repeated words. “How long have you been cheating on me?”

“You want the completely honest truth?” Anne said quietly, waiting for Greg’s nod before going on. “This time, about a month. But I’ve been doing it, off and on, for years now.”

Greg shook his head and stood up quickly. He paced the kitchen until he could bring his face under control. It wouldn’t do to break down into tears or start screaming out of anger. Anne knew him well enough to keep silent, letting Greg work through the emotions surging through him. When the anger finally ebbed enough that Greg could speak without screaming, he sat down and crossed his arms over his chest. Sherlock hadn’t explained what he wanted to happen from dragging Greg to that damned flat but there was really only one path from here. Now that it was all out in the open Greg couldn’t let things go as he had before. There was no convenient blindfold anymore.

“Since it was off and on, you obviously aren’t going to stop,” Greg said quietly. His voice was still cold, though, cold and distant. He saw Anne shiver but didn’t let that affect him. Not now. “I don’t think it’s going to work between us now. I can’t stay with someone I don’t trust.”

“Wha... what?” Anne stammered, mouth dropping open in shock. Was Greg saying what she thought he was? If he was, Anne never believed it would come to this. “Are you saying you want a divorce?”

“Yes, I guess I am,” Greg nodded, sadness passing through his eyes before the cold replaced it again. “I love you, Anne, but I think that’s the best idea right now.”

“But... divorce?” Anne repeated in a small voice. She drywashed her hands, unable to hold still as her life started to fall apart. A divorce was never what Anne wanted. Her life with Greg was comfortable, familiar, even with the lower pay. Her marriage had been a safety net to fall back on, a place to always call home when her affairs ended. “Are you sure, Greg? I love you and I don’t want to break apart our family.”

“Anne, you already broke it,” Greg laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “The only difference now as opposed to before is that I know now.”

There was more argument on Anne’s part, more desperate pleading for Greg to change his mind. Yet nothing she said could convince him to do so. There was a pain twisting through Greg’s chest and squeezing his heart but he stood firm. Repeating the same sentences in a calm and cool tone of voice eventually convinced Anne that Greg meant what she said. Stifling tears, she left the kitchen and packed a bag. She’d spent the night at a motel and figure out where she was going to go from there. Greg had the job of explaining to Sophia and Elizabeth, now 17 and 15, that their parents were getting a divorce.

The next week passed slowly as the Lestrades adjusted to the new world they found themselves in. Anne would spend a few hours each night visiting with Sophia and Elizabeth. Both girls were taking news of the divorce hard, trying to convince each of their parents to stay together. Arguments were put to rest, however, when both Greg and Anne retained lawyers and began proceedings. After Greg had explained everything to Mycroft, the elder Holmes had recommended a lawyer, a man he’d gone to university with. The split was fairly amicable and bloodless, though Greg was implacable regarding the terms: he would keep main custody of their daughters and Anne would have visiting rights. Greg, as the guardian of their daughters, would also keep possession of the house. Signing on the line of the final paper that finalized their divorce, Anne felt a pang of sorrow and guilt. It was her fault, everything happening now was her fault. Yet, perhaps it was better this way when a flash of freedom overtook the sorrow and guilt.

Six months later, after the dust had settled after the divorce, Greg found himself following a set routine. The grief he’d felt over Sherlock’s death was completely gone since the man had shown up alive. That was a bright spot that still made Greg smile. Anne had worked with him to figure out a schedule for her days with the girls and it seemed to be working. There was still a tangle of anger and pain deep in the pit of Greg’s stomach, one he believed might always be there. After all, Anne had been his high school sweetheart, they’d been together for years. Another bright spot in his life also involved a Holmes. His nights with Mycroft still continued, their friendship now strong and easy. He’d taken to recording some of their music when they played together; the improvised pieces were extraordinary. 

There was something that needled at Greg about their relationship, though. It was nothing overt that Mycroft did and half the time, Greg thought he might be reading too far into things. What Mycroft did could be considered old-fashioned politeness, after all. There was no way Mycroft was flirting with him, especially not after he’d calmly agreed to forget about Greg’s drunken antics. Surely Mycroft wouldn’t open that can of worms again? Yet it seemed to be flirting, when Mycroft would offer him something first, especially food. Waiting to eat until Greg started was just good manners, wasn’t it? And the little touches, hand on a shoulder or on an arm, they were just friendly, right? Greg had done the same with close friends, seen others touch casually. But there was always a warmth, a sense of _more_ that came with Mycroft’s touches. Before Greg could focus too closely on it, though, Mycroft had a job for him. Something that Greg leaped at: his rank back at New Scotland Yard and the task to restore Sherlock’s reputation. The man wouldn’t want to stay dead forever after all.

The first step was to go through each and every single case Sherlock had worked with the department. That was done with the Chief Superintendent that John had chinned, which made Greg smile slightly every time he thought of it, and Mycroft. It was fascinating watching the elder Holmes work, all careless confidence and razor-sharp logic that cut through each and every protest the Superintendent raised. It took another two months, and by now they were nearly at a year and half since Sherlock fell, but Sherlock was cleared of being behind every single one. There was no apology, not that Greg expected one. Nor did Mycroft, he admitted later to Greg when they were out having a drink at what had become their usual pub. They’d become very close during the time spent clearing Sherlock. But that could happen when you spent at least a couple hours with someone every day.

“So that’s one thing crossed off the list,” Greg said, clinking his glass against Mycroft’s before taking a big drink. “What’s next, Mycroft?”

“Next is a short time to recuperate,” Mycroft answered, fiddling with his glass and turning it in circles on the bar they were sitting at. “There’s only so many things we can do so fast. To be honest, we went through those cases a lot faster than I expected.”

“Faster than you expected?” Greg repeated incredulously. “It took two months! How long did you think it was going to take? I got barely any work done in my division as it was. I’ve been leaving most of it to Dimmock, happy as he is to take it. I think he means to replace me when I retire.”

“He is the most competent of your team,” Mycroft said approvingly. “And yes, faster than I expected. Mostly due to the Superintendent. He didn’t fight as hard as I thought he would. I understand that I intimidate people at times. It’s good to know I can do it on purpose. And that it works.”

“You... you did it... on purpose?” Greg managed through wheezing laughter. He bumped Mycroft’s shoulder with his own, inviting the other man to share in his laughter. “I’ve never met _anyone_ who could intimidate him like that. You need to show me your secrets sometime.”

“And if I did that, what use would you have for me?” Mycroft joked back, though he hid the flash of worry that burned through him. Losing Greg’s friendship was something that terrified Mycroft but having him around outweighed that. Even though the longer they were friends, the more Mycroft was sure he could come to love the man. The fact that he might already be falling was conveniently swept to the back of his mind.

“I’m sure I could find _something_ ,” Greg laughed, catching his breath again. “You are a genius on the piano after all. Who would I play with if you stopped?”

A lull in their conversation grew, a comfortable silence that both men had come to enjoy. There was something soothing in not having to speak every single minute that they were together. They drank slowly but had finished their first pints by the time Mycroft spoke again. He signalled the bartender for another round then turned to Greg.

“And how are you? I haven’t wanted to ask before now, since I didn’t want to open wounds,” Mycroft started delicately. He took a drink of his fresh pint to give Greg a moment to gather himself. The pain that flashed across Greg’s face actually hurt Mycroft, as well. “Are you... adjusting? It must be difficult.”

“It’s been... an experience,” Greg muttered, draining a good third of his fresh pint. Maybe talking would help. He’d always been able to discuss just about anything with Mycroft, especially after Sherlock’s fall. “I still love her, you know. Even after everything. Even after trying to convince myself that I don’t anymore.”

“From what I’ve learned, love is never a bad thing,” Mycroft mused softly. “It may hurt but its not bad. Anne was a large part of your life. Maybe a piece of you will always love her. Is that really so bad?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” Greg admitted, shaking his head. “I know Sophia is still angry. She only speaks to me when she has to. Elizabeth has withdrawn into herself. Oh, she’s still happy and open when she’s with friends or at school. But at home, she stays in her room with the door closed. I feel like they believe its my fault since I pushed for the divorce.”

“It hasn’t been all that long for them,” Mycroft said sympathetically. He risked a hand on Greg’s shoulder, relishing the warmth that bled into his hand. He left his hand there, longer than he’d ever touched Greg before. Allowing short touches had been fine, had been just platonic from Greg’s point of view. “They probably just need a little more time. How has Anne been taking all this?”

“Anne does what Anne wants and everything works around her,” Greg replied dryly, rolling his eyes. “You know, its the little things that I notice now that I never did before. Anne has a tendency to be bossy and stubborn. I don’t know if she reduced it when we were together or I just didn’t see it. But we’re working through the visits. I wish I didn’t have to see her as often as I do. It’s like being flayed in small strips. Every time you think you’ve healed, it happens again and all the old wounds reopen. But, you’re right. All I can do is wait.”

Hearing the pain in Greg’s voice and feeling a tad guilty for bringing the situation up, Mycroft turned the conversation to happier topics. They stayed at the pub for a few more hours before work convinced the two to call it a night. Life went on even when the only thing one might wish for is for it to stand still. The same could be said of time, Mycroft mused as he drove back to his flat. Time had the ability to sharpen memories and feelings or dull them until all that remained was a pale shadow of the original. And again, only time would tell which of these options happened to Greg. If he was being completely honest with himself, and Mycroft tried to be as often as he could, he was hoping for the latter. After all, if Greg moved on from Anne and the hurt faded, perhaps he would be interested in someone else.

Over the several months, Mycroft collected information, sifted through rumor, and passed on what reliable facts he could to Sherlock. The second sniper proved elusive but was finally cornered in a small town in France. People left a trail wherever they went and Mycroft had people who did nothing but search for that trail, no matter how small. With a small nod to himself, Mycroft managed to balance his actual job, his work with Sherlock, and his friendship with Greg. It was like juggling slippery glass balls blind but it worked. And Greg never noticed the little flirtations Mycroft slipped into nearly everything he did. Handing something to Greg allowed Mycroft to let their fingers touch, a small brush as he pulled away could be construed as making sure Greg had whatever it was firmly. Warm glances and warmer smiles could be taken for friendship, though some of Mycroft’s glances danced on the edge of hot rather than warm. 

Sherlock came back to London after dealing with the second sniper. While waiting for concrete information, Sherlock had not been idle. Then again, sitting and twiddling his thumbs was never something Sherlock could do. He set about dismantling the web Moriarty had set up. Contacts, protection, advisors, everyone. Thankfully, the web was not as big as Mycroft had feared though larger than he’d expected. One hundred people dying of accidents or outright murder over a short time could not be overlooked, would raise suspicions and alarms. Five, ten, even twenty deaths by accident or murder could be hidden. Could fold into the backdrop of life and be forgotten. So far, twelve people had met their end at Sherlock’s hand, every single one hip deep (or deeper) in the games Moriarty had played. Eight more waited, not including Moran, never knowing that death stalked them on silent feet with fury and a cold resolve in quicksilver eyes. Moran was proving to be a nearly impossible target. The man was a ghost, a hint of his presence there, the rumor of seeing him here. What little Mycroft knew was incontrovertible were just whispers of names: S. Moran in Russian, J. Moran in Greece, James Moran in Germany, and Sebastian Moriarty in America. The whispers said that the man belonging to those names lived in each country though for how long, no one knew. None of Mycroft’s informants had actually seen Moran either. He could literally be anywhere and that fact was like a burr under Mycroft’s skin. But he would make a mistake, talk to the wrong person or show himself in the wrong place. Mycroft had to content himself with that.

The day after Sherlock had shown up on his doorstep full of grim satisfaction at the death of the second sniper, Mycroft sat at his piano and traced his fingers over the keys. An unfinished composition rested on the stand in front of him, a pencil held gently between his teeth. It wasn’t often Mycroft composed anything, especially something as sentimental as this. But there was just something about the melody, about the man who was described in notes and beats, that had caught Mycroft and held him completely. His fingers pressed down on three keys, a warm chord filling the room. It didn’t sound quite right and Mycroft changed two of the notes. Another chord followed the first, this one slightly darker as if it had an edge that could cut. Nodding in satisfaction, Mycroft added the notes to the score and settled the pencil between his lips again. That had been a tricky part, trying to find the right notes.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft started at the beginning of the piece and played it through. His fingers never fumbled, every note perfect and perfectly timed. If the sheet music had been taken away right this instant and destroyed, Mycroft would still have been able to play this piece. He knew every single beat, every note, every pause, every inflection. It was engraved on his heart and ingrained in his mind and he would have had it no other way. That was the way of music that he composed: the need to get it down on paper so that he had an outlet for the grip it had on his heart and mind. The music was so compelling, so absorbing, that Mycroft didn’t hear the bell ringing until it had rung for the third time. Setting the pencil down, Mycroft left the music where it was and went to get the door. It was rare but he did sometimes get people wanting to sell him something. Probably one of those, considering he wasn’t expecting anyone.

“Hey, Mycroft,” Greg said when the door opened. He forced a smile onto his face, trying to ignore what had sent him here in the first place. Though Mycroft probably knew exactly what he was thinking; the Holmes’ often did. “Mind if I come in?”

“Of course not, Greg,” Mycroft said, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. He stepped back and gestured for Greg to come in. “How are you?”

“Been better, been worse,” Greg replied, stepping into the foyer and shrugging out of his jacket. He hung it up on the coatrack next to Mycroft’s and turned, crossing his arms over his chest in an effort to look nonchalant. “How about you?”

“I’m well, thank you,” Mycroft answered, closing the door and studying Greg. There was an old pain on his face as well as some bafflement. While Mycroft would admit that he could usually deduce what other people were thinking, this confused him. Especially as there was a sense of... relief? “What brings you to my flat?”

“A... a realization, I suppose,” Greg muttered, looking away from Mycroft’s eyes. He wanted to get this out before he lost all courage to speak. The epiphany he’d had was still new, still fragile, and Greg hoped speaking it would strengthen it. “Anne came over to pick up the girls for her visit. They’re going to a movie. When I saw her again, I braced myself for the pain and love and everything else I’d been feeling since the divorce. But it never came. All I felt was a... faded love for her and a sense of resignation. I think I’ve finally realized it’s over and stopped beating myself up about.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Mycroft said seriously, wondering what Greg wanted to hear. The truth was what Mycroft decided on. Better that than lies. Greg had had enough lies from people he cared about. “Sometimes letting go is the best thing we can do in some situations.”

“Yeah, I think I finally realized that,” Greg nodded, then turned towards the hallway. “I didn’t bring my guitar but maybe we can listen to some of your records or something? I just needed to tell someone about this and get out of my head for a while.”

“Sure, sounds good,” Mycroft nodded and gestured for Greg to precede him down the hall. Mycroft stopped at the doorway and continued, “Why don’t I get some tea while you decide what you want to listen to? You know what’ll get you out of your head, as you say.”

Greg nodded, thumbing through the records while Mycroft headed to the kitchen. It didn’t take long, Mycroft gathering the cups, teapot, sugar, and milk while the water boiled in the kettle. There was no music coming from the record player just yet but that could mean that Greg was feeling indecisive. When the kettle whistled, Mycroft poured the water into the teapot and let the tea steep while he carried the tray he’d set everything on into the music room. There was a table against one wall just for the purpose of holding a tray; Mycroft didn’t want anything liquid near his piano or the records. Yet, when Mycroft walked into the room, he didn’t see Greg where he expected at all. The other man was sitting on the piano bench, one hand raised to touch the sheet music still on the stand. It took an effort not to drop the tray from suddenly nerveless fingers as Mycroft watched Greg’s finger trace over a line on the composition he’d been working on. He set the tray on the small table, working to compose his face, before turning and meeting Greg’s eyes.

“Tea’s almost ready,” Mycroft said, proud when his voice remained calm and steady.

“That’s good,” Greg replied absently, smiling at Mycroft. Most of his attention was on the composition, notes sounding in his head. “I didn’t know you composed as well as played. This sounds beautiful when I go through it in my head. Would you mind playing it? I’d love to hear it.”

“As you wish,” Mycroft said, ignoring the tea for now. His mind rushed as he settled himself on the bench, next to Greg as the other man just slid over to make room. Mycroft stared at the music, fingers resting lightly on the keys that would sound the first notes. Composing was fine but Mycroft had never played one of his compositions for anyone before. He knew he was only adequate and didn’t want to hear faint praise. But Greg was watching expectantly, waiting for him to start. Squaring his shoulders, Mycroft started playing. After the first few bars, he closed his eyes not wanting to see Greg’s reaction until he was done. If it wasn’t a good one, Mycroft didn’t think he could continue playing to the end.

Greg watched, enthralled, as Mycroft lost himself to the music. The main melody was calm, stately, and firm, a strength that everything else hung on. The harmony weaved and danced around it, teasing at the main melody until both finally worked together. It was haunting and compelling and Greg found himself falling in love with the piece. Mycroft started to sway gently as he played, moving with the rhythm of the music. All too soon, it came to an end. It didn’t sound finished, which frustrated Greg a little bit. Something that beautiful should have an end.

“It’s amazing,” Greg said softly when Mycroft stopped playing. “What gave you the inspiration for it?”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, just as softly. He wondered how much to say then settled for the bare bones truth. “A friend, actually. This is how I see... that friend.”

Greg studied Mycroft in turn, wondering how many friends the man actually had. As far as he knew, and Sherlock had intimated as much, he was the only friend Mycroft had. Was this piece about him? That was how Mycroft saw him? Suddenly, Greg remembered all the times he thought Mycroft was just being polite or friendly. That piece had a... longing to it, a desire. Maybe Mycroft hadn’t been as aloof as he’d appeared when Greg had kissed him. Did he want to press this?

“It’s not finished,” Greg pointed out, turning on the bench to face Mycroft. “How do you want it to end, Mycroft?”

Mycroft faced Greg as the other man moved, tilting his head in confusion at the other man’s tone. This was new, the words almost a challenge combined with the look in Greg’s eyes. Tension sprang up between them, something breathless and intent and warm. There was no sign of doubt in Greg’s eyes as Mycroft continued to study him. Instead, there was an elevated pulse rate, dilating pupils, and slightly heavy breathing as Greg’s mouth opened enough to show the white gleam of teeth and tip of tongue. Mycroft found himself drawn to those lips wondering what they tasted like this time. A small smile tugged at Greg’s lips as he saw where Mycroft’s gaze was, making him look even more kissable. It would seem Greg wanted this and Mycroft wasn’t about to let the moment pass. Leaning forward, Mycroft watched carefully for any change in Greg’s expression. There was none, except for a flash of anticipation. Pausing for a beat just before their lips touched, Mycroft gathered all of his courage together and let out a small breath. Then, Mycroft closed the distance and kissed Greg.


	5. Chapter 5

Feeling a curious light floating in his chest, Greg leaned back and just looked at Mycroft. A small smile tugged at his lips as Greg swiped his tongue over them. There was a spicy, earthy flavor left behind after the kiss, almost like cinnamon and almonds. Greg had to chuckle lightly when Mycroft’s eyes followed the movement. This was so much better sober, every sensation magnified without the haze of alcohol clouding his senses. 

“That could make an interesting ending,” Greg murmured. “Or an interesting beginning. I know which I’d prefer.”

“Is that so?” Mycroft replied, a light tone in his words. Yet his heartbeat belied the ease he projected and Mycroft still hoped desperately he wasn’t mis-stepping. There was nothing to indicate that, yet a shred of doubt remained. Wasn’t Greg straight? Not interested romantically in guys? He’d said so himself, that awkward conversation they’d had a few years ago. “I believe we’ve made an excellent beginning and I’d like to continue in the same vein.”

“Good,” Greg nodded in satisfaction, one hand rising to cup Mycroft’s jaw. His fingers spread over Mycroft’s skin and Greg felt the warmth he’d tried to ignore so often before flood him. Revelling in it for a few seconds, something he’d never allowed himself to do before, Greg let his eyes drift down to Mycroft’s lips. Admitting that he’d thought about them, about kissing them again, was easy now.

“Are you just going to sit there staring at me?” Mycroft asked, smiling as he tilted his head into Greg’s hand. “Or are you going to kiss me again?”

Greg didn’t hesitate, just leaned forward and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s again. Instead of teasing, as he remembered he did the first time, Greg licked into Mycroft’s mouth quickly. Mycroft kissed back just as hard as Greg did, leaning into the touch on his face. Everything about this was better, especially as it seemed Mycroft would be able to continue. There would most likely be no conversation in the morning denying what had happened. At least Mycroft hoped. Wrapping an arm around Greg’s waist, Mycroft pulled the other man closer. Now there was no space between them on the bench, their bodies pressed together from thighs to waists to shoulders. There was something addicting to Greg’s kiss, the flavor and feel of it. It was sweet and tangy, reminding Mycroft of lemon. That taste was stronger without alcohol masking it and Mycroft followed it eagerly. It didn’t escape him that Greg had mirrored what Mycroft himself had done last time. That erased the last of the doubt that Mycroft harbored.

This time, it was Mycroft who pulled back from their kiss, breath leaving his mouth in panting huffs. He didn’t let go of Greg’s waist, enjoying having the other man close. And this time, there was no guilt, no certainty that he couldn’t do this or let Greg convince him. It was just them there in that room, two people finally discovering, or admitting, their attraction to each other. But there was a small voice, barely there and getting quieter with each moment of closeness, that pushed Mycroft to make sure. Listening to that voice was aggravating and Mycroft wished it wasn’t so determined. Yet, that voice had never steered him wrong.

“Greg, I have to ask,” Mycroft started, voice pitched lower from desire. “Are you sure? Absolutely sure that this is what you want? I don’t... I don’t want a repeat of what happened before. You need to be sure.”

“I know and I’m sorry for that night,” Greg looked away, guilt and embarrassment flashing across his face. “But that was the other part of the epiphany, though it didn’t happen until I heard your song. When I realized that seeing Anne didn’t hurt like it used to it made me think. I believe I’m ready to move on completely, find someone else. And I’d like that someone else to be you. After all, you seem to have been flirting with me, long as it took me to realize. That’s brilliant actually, disguising flirting as charm and manners.”

“It’s a bit of a game I play with myself,” Mycroft admitted, chuckling self-deprecatingly. “I’ve been attracted to you for a while but you were married. I wasn’t going to get in the middle of that. But I could walk right up to the line and stare over the edge. And I did.”

“I think I knew that,” Greg mused, turning back to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Somewhere deep down. I think that’s why I came to you when I was drunk. Don’t worry so much, Mycroft. I won’t go back on it, not this time.”

“That is very good to hear,” Mycroft smiled, pressing a light kiss to Greg’s lips. Greg kept him close, still cupping Mycroft’s jaw. This kiss was sweet, almost a promise between them. Though what that promised entailed was still hazy. Maybe a promise to try, to see where they could take their relationship. They spent the next few hours kissing and talking, both willing to move slowly. Much as this seemed a dream come true for Mycroft, he wanted to savor each and every moment. And Greg, well, he’d been married for so long he’d almost forgotten what it was like starting a relationship with someone new. He had no problems with slow, since he felt like he was fumbling as it was. At the door, when Greg was ready to leave, they shared one last passionate kiss, bodies pressed close together so that not even a millimeter remained between them. Greg left smiling, feeling lighter than he’d had in a long time. The memory of those kisses followed him into his dreams that night as they did for Mycroft. And this time, no guilt clouded the pleasantness of their dreams.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

The romantic part of their relationship progressed over the next several months. Not wanting any interference from Sherlock or John, Greg kept it to himself. Sherlock would probably take one look at him and deduce it anyway, if the man ever concentrated on something other than Sebastian Moran. Not having Sherlock around to point out every little detail was actually rather good and Greg didn’t have to feel self-conscious about dating someone again. John was still mired in his grief, moving through his life as if he was asleep. Whenever Greg convinced the doctor to go out for a drink, John showed a semblance of his former self. But it was only the surface, John’s eyes blank as he laughed or told stories.

The next hurdle Greg saw was telling his daughters. Sophia was speaking to him again, if a little stiffly and formally. It was strange, seeing his bubbly little girl acting so distant. But as long as she was talking to him again, it meant Sophia was healing. Talking meant the rift could be completely healed. Elizabeth started leaving her room more and more often, losing to haunted look that filled her eyes. His youngest forgave him faster and Greg was beyond grateful the first time Elizabeth hugged him. And Anne was cordial, never snapping or blaming Greg for their situation. She appeared to thrive, a new light in her eyes and a bounce in her step. It was as if a weight had been lifted from Anne’s shoulders. It truly seemed that the divorce had been for the best.

Life continued in London, in all its wonder, gruesomeness, joy, and pain. Greg and Iain Dimmock split the cases that came into their division now, Greg actively grooming the man to take over once he retired. Though, that might be longer than Greg had thought even a year ago. He felt stronger, better able to deal with the ugliness that inevitably came with his job. And if the others saw the stars in his eyes and speculated (Donovan even started a pool as to who might have put them there), no one ridiculed Greg or even mentioned it. It just wasn’t worth it, to pierce the veil Greg thought he wore to hide the happiness he felt. Their close rate was lower than it had been before Sherlock’s apparent suicide yet it didn’t drop to what it had been before Sherlock started consulting. Whenever the detective was in London and Greg knew about, which was about half the time since Mycroft would mention it, Greg would bring his most confusing cases. Some were cold and some were only a few days old, but Sherlock pored through each with the same intensity. The gasp when Sherlock deduced the culprit, the flushed skin and too-wide eyes as if he was still sampling the drugs he’d taken so many years ago finally convinced Greg that even the smallest cases could give Sherlock the high he craved. There was relief in those eyes, too, relief and a desperate longing that Greg had seen too often in John’s eyes. Sherlock wanted to be back, wanted to be the genius consulting detective who solved cases for New Scotland Yard and gave them a hard time over it. He wanted to be Sherlock Holmes again rather than whatever identity Mycroft had provided for him. On a warm day, with Sherlock sprawled across Mycroft’s couch with another case file on his chest, Greg decided to bring that up to Sherlock.

“So, what will you do once you’ve found Moran?” Greg asked, flipping through another file in a chair across from the couch. That file was far more pressing, a double homicide that had happened just two days ago. Greg wanted another look through it before giving it to Sherlock. “Have you thought about it?”

“Thought about it?” Sherlock snorted, rolling his eyes as he sat up. Papers cascaded off his chest and Greg sighed as they fell. At least the pages were numbered. “Of course I’ve thought about it. I’ve little else to do when Mycroft doesn’t have me gallivanting around the world putting out brush fires his minions could handle.”

“And? And don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying it, at least a little bit,” Greg said, shaking his head at Sherlock’s glare. “You enjoy anything that gets you to think, anything different. Don’t deny it, Sherlock, I’ve known you for too long now.”

“I suppose it isn’t boring,” Sherlock muttered, the closest he would come to admitting something Mycroft had given him was interesting. “I’ve never craved travel before but it is interesting seeing new places. So many interesting deductions, especially among Mycroft’s minions. Did you know that three separate people are fraternizing with the same person within their department? That’s a firing offense while another is skimming from what Mycroft terms a slush fund. Its used for bribes and things of that sort.”

“Well, no one’s perfect, you know,” Greg shrugged, flipping the file he was holding closed with a sigh. He still saw nothing new but Sherlock would probably take one look through it and tell him who the killer was and why he did it. “I’ve seen more corruption among government employees and the like than I’d care to think about. Power sometimes goes to a person’s head, even a small amount.”

“Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely, is that it?” Sherlock laughed, picking up the pieces of paper that littered the floor at his feet. It must be John’s influence, even now, Greg thought. The old Sherlock would never have done that, expecting others to clean up the messes he made. “To answer your question, I want to go home when all of this is done. With you and Mrs. Hudson safe, it’s tempting. Especially as John is a fighter and would agree to deal with whatever came, I think. But it’s risky and I won’t put him at risk. When I’ve found Moran and given him what he would deal to others, I’m going to go home.”

“Well, it is good to hear exactly what you plan to do,” Mycroft said from the doorway to the foyer. Greg smiled at him, unable to stop the reaction at seeing Mycroft. He didn’t see the sudden sharp look Sherlock gave him nor the satisfaction that nearly radiated off the man a few seconds later. Mycroft saw it and wondered but didn’t bother to press Sherlock for answers right now. He could be feeling that satisfaction over many things. Yet the timing, combined with the studied look Sherlock was still directing at Greg made Mycroft think that Sherlock had just deduced at least part of the change in their relationship. When Sherlock turned to Mycroft and nodded, just the barest fraction, Mycroft knew it for sure. And wanted to laugh, surprised at the happiness he felt. Steps had been taken to bridge the distance Sherlock had pushed between them when all Mycroft had tried to do was protect him. Of course, Sherlock had never believed himself in need of that protection and ran into more problems trying to avoid it.

“Surely I never needed to voice my plans,” Sherlock told Mycroft dryly as Mycroft settled in the chair near Greg’s. A quirked eyebrow and a glance flashed towards Greg spoke eloquently of Sherlock’s amusement and, oddly, that same satisfaction. Suspicions stirred but Sherlock distracted Mycroft with his next words. “What have you found regarding Moran? Anything other than those four names?”

“Whispers and rumors, though perhaps more concrete than those before,” Mycroft sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. There were four people whose only job for the last several months had been to sift through those whispers and rumors and trace Moran’s footsteps. “There has been... activity under the name of Sebastian Moriarty in New York City. A contact managed to snap a blurry photo and it appears to be him.”

“Finally,” Sherlock hissed, anger and determination flashing in his eyes. “Where in New York City? I need to be on the next plane I can be. Moran won’t remain long in one place.”

“You’re very right about that,” Mycroft said, waving a hand at Sherlock for him to calm down. “A plane won’t be necessary, Sherlock. Moran left New York early this morning. He bought a one-way plane ticket back here. The plane should land in a few hours.”

Sherlock leaped up, scattering the papers he’d gathered all over the floor around their feet. Mycroft stood just as quickly, moving to stop his brother with a hand on his shoulder. Glaring, Sherlock shook Mycroft’s hand off his shoulder and stood with his feet spread and shoulders squared. Mycroft met his glare calmly and merely waited until Sherlock took a deep breath and relaxed.

“What do you have planned?” Sherlock asked grudgingly, still glaring just as hard.

“I have agents set at the terminal,” Mycroft explained quietly, forcing Sherlock to listen. The only piece of advice Mycroft actually agreed with from their father was someone’s else’s quote: A man will struggle to hear a whisper where he will ignore a shout. It worked wonderfully and Mycroft used the technique whenever he could. “Moran will not be able to get off that plane and out of the building without one of them seeing him and apprehending him.”

“He’ll be expecting that. He has to assume that people will always be watching,” Sherlock muttered, dropping the glare and starting to pace. “He hasn’t managed to go this long without a _hint_ of his whereabouts or intentions by being sloppy. I need to be there, Mycroft. I have to end this.”

“If he sees you, he’ll run. It’s as simple as that, Sherlock,” Mycroft argued, settling back in his chair once it was clear Sherlock wasn’t going to run off. “You have to wait for my agents to deal with it. They are very well trained and will capture Moran.”

“Sorry but I don’t have the faith in your minions that you appear to, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped. But he did sit back down on the couch, tapping at his knee impatiently. Moran would know him, Mycroft had that right, and would probably run as soon as he caught sight of him. There was no way Sherlock was going to chance the man running again when this was the first time Moran’d ever been found. Greg handed him the file on the homicide and waited while Sherlock flipped through it. Tension filled the air, a nervous waiting and breathless anticipation. Finally, Mycroft’s phone beeped after the third time Sherlock went through the file.

“He escaped,” Mycroft whispered, staring down at the message on his phone in absolute shock. “No one matching Moran’s description disembarked the plane once it landed. Somehow, he managed to get away.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything but his expression spoke volumes. Mycroft ignored the “I told you so” and the anger, tapping quickly on his phone. There were too many orders to give to take the time to soothe Sherlock right now. Besides, the case file would distract Sherlock for a while; they were like candy to him and Sherlock could never turn one down. Mycroft’s thoughts were proved true when Sherlock startled rattling off his deductions, pointing out the killer and telling Greg where he could be found based on the color of some mud from the boot prints left behind. Greg listened and wrote down everything pertinent, leaving out most of Sherlock’s deductions for now. No one knew, or could know, that Sherlock was still alive, so Greg would make a suggestion to his technicians and they would follow up on it. That had led to the proof Sherlock had deduced and everyone was happy.

“I need to go,” Sherlock said tersely once he was finished with his deductions. “I don’t know how long Moran will be in London or what he’s doing here but I _will_ find him. It’s been over two years, Mycroft. I want to come home.”

“Just be careful,” Mycroft cautioned, looking up from his phone. Anthea had just sent a text, explaining everything that the agents had done to find Moran so far. “Don’t get killed, Sherlock. I don’t want to mourn you for real.”

Sherlock nodded, sparing Mycroft one sour glance before leaving. He stalked out and Greg was amused by the thought that if Sherlock had been a cat, his tail would have been lashing furiously. When the front door slammed closed, Greg got up and moved behind Mycroft. Wrapping his arms over the man’s shoulders, Greg leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of Mycroft’s head. Then his lips when Mycroft tipped his head back for the kiss.

“It’s good to see you,” Greg murmured against Mycroft’s lips. “I just wish it was with better news.”

“I know and so do I,” Mycroft replied, twining his fingers with Greg’s. That flash of warmth was still there. It was addicting though Mycroft surrendered himself willingly to it. How much he craved touch was frightening if Mycroft thought about it for too long. But then, he’d gone without affection for so long perhaps he was making up for it. “Stay for dinner? I can order something and we can pretend to work.”

“I can’t tonight,” Greg replied, a touch sadly. There was something important he had to do. Something that had to be done before he could go through with the decision he’d made. Though he laughed as he spoke again, showing the levity he wasn’t sure the words would do alone. “How long have we been together now, Mycroft? Eight months? We don’t have to spend most nights together.”

“Eight months,” Mycroft repeated, turning in his chair since he was getting a crick in his neck. It caused him to drop Greg’s hands but Mycroft reclaimed them as soon as he resettled himself. He let a smirk tug at his lips and swiped his tongue over the bottom one slowly. “I suppose I’ll have to entertain myself tonight, then.”

“Tonight, yes, but tomorrow I can help,” Greg promised, leaning down to suck Mycroft’s bottom lip between his teeth. He teased, touching his tongue to Mycroft’s lip in light flicks. Letting it slide from between his teeth, Greg smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes, tomorrow. I love you, Greg.” Mycroft nodded, capturing Greg’s lips in another kiss. He couldn’t help but notice a certain nervousness hovering about Greg. There was nothing special about tomorrow, as far as Mycroft could remember. What could possibly be going through Greg’s mind. “I’ll walk you out.”

“I love you, too, Mycroft,” Greg told him, smiling. “Sometimes I can’t believe how much.”

They walked slowly to the door, hands clasped firmly together. While a part of Greg laughed at the way he acted, much like a teenager with a first crush, a greater part of him enjoyed it all. The touches, the laughter, the stolen kisses when no one was looking. He’d wondered vaguely if this was what had drawn Anne into her affairs then dismissed it from his mind. There was no room for her in Greg’s relationship with Mycroft. Sophia and Elizabeth, on the other hand, were a different story. They hugged each other tightly at the door, Mycroft resting his fingers against the side of Greg’s neck. That gesture had become common for both of them, the quickest way to show their affection. And laden with the most meaning. Greg left and waved to Mycroft as he drove away. He made it back to his home before Anne dropped the girls off. That was a small comfort, giving Greg a little time to go over his words again.

“Hi Dad!” Elizabeth said brightly when she burst through the front door with Sophia and Anne behind her. Anne nodded at Greg and hugged Sophia and Elizabeth before leaving. She didn’t spend much time in the same place as Greg anymore.

“Hello, my dears,” Greg replied warmly, scooping first Elizabeth then Sophia up into hugs. “Let’s go sit down. I need to talk to both of you about something important.”

Sophia shot a suspicious glance at Greg but followed quietly while Elizabeth walked next to Greg. They settled onto the couch while Greg perched on the edge of the coffee table, putting his head at an equal height with theirs. He took a deep breath, scrubbing his hands over his thighs, before looking up and smiling. The last time he’d had to tell them something important, it was explaining about the divorce. Perhaps his smile would reassure them.

“You both know that I’ve been dating Mycroft, right?” Greg asked, waiting for them to nod before continuing. “And that he’s become very important to me? Well, I wanted to ask what you both thought of him. You’ve both been rather quiet about our relationship.”

“I like him,” Elizabeth said frankly, shrugging when Sophia glared at her. Sophia still wasn’t happy that both Anne and Greg were dating other people. A small part of her hoped they might still get back together. “He doesn’t treat us like children or try to buy our affection. That happened to Lisa, when her mom started dating again. She always complained about it.”

“He’s all right,” Sophia offered when Greg looked at her. “When he found out I’m interested in going into government work, he offered me some advice and options. Why do you ask, Dad?”

“Well, I’m glad you both like him,” Greg answered, stalling for just a moment. “I wanted to talk to both of you before I went ahead with what I want to do. I love Mycroft and I want him to become part of our family. What do you both think of me marrying him?”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open in surprise while Sophia looked as if she had just been smacked on the back of the head. Greg waited, nervousness and fear fluttering in his belly. His daughters were the most important thing in his life, besides Mycroft, and Greg wanted to make sure that they would be all right with his plan. He’d promised himself, when he’d first decided he was going to ask Mycroft, that if they were completely against it, he would wait. The silence stretched on and Greg scrubbed his hands over his thighs again.

“Are you sure?” Sophia asked. “It hasn’t been all that long, Dad. Aren’t you always telling us not to do something rashly?”

“That’s exciting isn’t it, Sophie?” Elizabeth exclaimed at the same time, clapping her hands together happily. “He looks so happy with you, Dad.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth, and I am just as happy with him,” Greg smiled then turned to Sophia. He knew she would be the one against it, even if it was only at first. Which he hoped this was. “It is a little fast, yes, as we’ve been dating for eight months. But I’ve known Mycroft for years and we were friends for three before we started dating. I don’t feel as if that is so short a time.”

“How can you be sure its the right thing to do?” Sophia persisted while Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Elizabeth was all for it and that was a relief for Greg. “I mean, you and Mom were together for years and you still got a divorce. Why do you think that won’t happen with Mycroft?”

“Sweetie, I don’t know that it won’t happen,” Greg replied soothingly, reaching out to ruffle her hair. “One thing you both will learn is that love is always a risk. But I think this is worth it. I believe that we’ll be happy together.”

“So, what? It wasn’t worth it with Mom anymore?” Sophia snapped. She was still angry over the whole divorce though she had accepted it, mostly, by this point. “How can you just move on to someone else so fast? After all the time you spent with Mom?”

“It’s not the same situation, Sophia. What your mom did meant I couldn’t trust her anymore,” Greg explained, wishing there was some way he could comfort his eldest. Elizabeth crossed her arms over her chest, muttering quietly to herself. Once she’d forgiven Greg, she’d let go of the past. Sophia had a harder time doing that, clinging to her anger. “I still love her, a part of me always will. It’s difficult to explain but I think more of myself than trying to stay with someone who can’t be faithful. I’m sorry, sweetie, I know it hurts you but it’s true. And as to it being fast, sometimes love happens like that. I fell faster for your mother, back when I first met her in high school.”

“This is something you want?” Sophia asked after thinking for a few minutes. Greg recognized that look in her eyes, the tapping fingers and let her think. “What if he hurts you... like Mom did?”

“It is, sweetie,” Greg replied softly, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. The pain in her voice was heartbreaking. “Like I said, it’s a risk. But I don’t think Mycroft would ever do something like that. He’s taking a chance even opening up enough to date me, to love me. He’s told me a bit about his past and how long he’s avoided relationships and connections. To Mycroft, I have just as much chance of hurting him as you think he might hurt me.”

“All right, I guess I’m okay with it then,” Sophia said, a fierce look coming into her eyes. “But if he hurts you, I’ll find a way to do the same to him.”

“My brave little girl,” Greg laughed, relief making him weak for a few seconds. He pulled Sophia and Elizabeth into a hug, squeezing them tightly. “Thank you so much, my dears. And remember, I will always love you two, no matter what.”

“Love you too, Dad,” Elizabeth murmured and Sophia nodded. Greg took a deep breath, the first he’d taken since he’d started speaking. With Sophia and Elizabeth’s okay, Mycroft was the only person left. Greg was fairly certain Mycroft would say yes, though he very well might have the same arguments Sophia had had. Yet the same answers could be used, could convince Mycroft if he needed it. Greg was sure that this was where he wanted his life to go. Just one more yes and the next phase would begin.

The next evening, Greg stood outside Mycroft’s door fingering the small box in his pocket. He’d fidgeted enough at work that Donovan had remarked on it, though Greg had laughed it off. Even with the belief that Mycroft would say yes, there was a small part that kept calling him a fool. Laughing softly at himself, Greg knocked on the door. There was no going back now.

“Come on in, Greg,” Mycroft smiled when he opened the door. Once Greg stepped inside, Mycroft pulled him close and kissed him. “I hope you haven’t eaten yet; I ordered Italian.”

“No, I didn’t have time for dinner,” Greg said, pressing his forehead to Mycroft’s for a moment before the smells of marinara and pasta pulled him towards the kitchen. “Work was crazy today. I barely even had lunch.”

That and Greg hadn’t been able to calm his stomach enough to eat. Knowing the layout of Mycroft’s house as well as his own now, Greg walked towards the kitchen pulling Mycroft after him. Whenever they were together, their hands sought each other and locked together. It was one of a hundred things Greg loved about Mycroft. The little box felt heavier with each step. Dinner would be the perfect time to ask. As soon as Mycroft sat down, Greg decided. He didn’t think he could wait longer than that. He smiled when Mycroft looked at him questioningly. The same nervousness Mycroft had seen yesterday was back and he wondered what was going on with Greg. It didn’t seem to worry the other man, whatever it was. Yet again, Mycroft wished he had the ability to selectively read minds. Perhaps he’d find out tonight. There was also an air of determination and expectation around Greg, something he’d not really seen before.

“Sit, please,” Greg said, urging Mycroft toward his chair. “I know you like to seat me, with your charm and flirting, but this time I want you to sit.”

“I can do that,” Mycroft agreed, sinking down into his chair after letting Greg’s hand go. He watched as Greg took a deep breath and reached into a back pocket, one eyebrow arching up. “What is going on, Greg?”

“I have a question for you, Mycroft,” Greg replied, heart in his throat as he pulled the box out of his pocket. He sank to one knee, holding out the box as Mycroft’s eyes widened. “I love you and I know you love me just as much. Will you spend the rest of your life with me and marry me?”

“I... I... Greg,” Mycroft whispered, caught speechless yet again. The little box beckoned, curiosity burning to see what was inside. Slowly, feeling almost as if his hand belonged to someone else, Mycroft reached out and picked up the box. Opening it, Mycroft caught his breath at the ring inside. It was a simple gold band engraved with two lines twined together.

“I didn’t want to get an engagement ring,” Greg explained breathlessly as Mycroft studied the ring. “It didn’t seem quite right. Then I saw this wedding ring and it was perfect. What do you say, Mycroft?”

“Yes. I say yes,” Mycroft said, a grin pulling at his lips. “And that I’m surprised you beat me to it. I have a box similar to this upstairs in the nightstand next to the bed. There’s a ring inside it for you but I wasn’t sure if now was the right time. I love you, Greg.”

Greg lunged forward, a smile as big as Mycroft’s mirrored on his face. He wrapped his arms around Mycroft and buried his face in the crook of Mycroft’s shoulder. Laughing, Mycroft pulled Greg close, pressing kisses to his temple and cheek. The ring glinted in the box and Mycroft set it carefully on the table. This was wonderful, it was perfect and Mycroft wondered vaguely if it was possible to simply burst from sheer joy. Dinner was forgotten for the moment in favor of soft laughter and passionate kisses. Though neither man minded and it reheated just fine.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Mycroft looked up suddenly as the door to his office opened. No one should have been here, no meetings were scheduled. And no one should have made it past any of the men who worked here at the Diogenes Club. But when a haggard and bloody Sherlock met his eyes, Mycroft understood why his brother had been allowed to pass. When Sherlock had first started his vengeance against Moriarty to protect the people he cared for, Mycroft has instructed the others to let Sherlock through to his office at any time while he was inside. Setting aside the seating arrangement he’d been poring over, Mycroft gestured for Sherlock to sit. Ever since Greg had proposed six months ago, they’d been working, off an on, on the wedding. There were so many more details than Mycroft had expected, even for something simple like what they wanted.

“Do I need to call a doctor?” Mycroft asked seriously, pouring Sherlock a cup of tea and passing it to him. “Or are you going to live?”

“Blood’s not all mine,” Sherlock mumbled, drinking the tea down quickly. He poured more for himself and drank it just as fast. After pouring a third cup, Sherlock added sugar and set it down on the edge of Mycroft’s desk. “I found Moran. He put up one hell of a fight but I managed to kill him. It’s over now.”

“I hope you weren’t seen,” Mycroft said, glancing over the blood smears to reassure himself Sherlock was telling the truth. “Congratulations, Sherlock, truly. I’m happy for you.”

“Great. And no, I wasn’t seen. I left Moran’s body in a dumpster near the flat he’d taken,” Sherlock explained, writing down the address. Mycroft’s minions would take care of the body, likely making it disappear without a trace. Moran wouldn’t even become a cold case. “I want to come back as soon as possible, Mycroft. Now that there’s no danger, there’s no need for John to continue to suffer.”

“I’ll start the paperwork as soon as Moran’s body is found and dealt with,” Mycroft promised, pulling out his phone and sending the address to Anthea along with the command to deal with the body. “It may take some adjustment, but you should be able to get back to your old life. John still lives in 221B, by the way. Sentiment kept him there, I believe.”

“I know. I’ve checked on him a few times over the years. Can you believe it’s been almost three?” Sherlock asked, shaking his head and taking a sip of his tea. “Speaking of sentiment, how is your wedding planning coming? Still working through everything?”

“I can’t believe how much there is still to do,” Mycroft sighed, glaring down at the seating arrangement. Anne Ford’s name was on there, previously Anne Lestrade. Greg had wanted to include her and Mycroft could see the logic: Anne was still part of his life, even if just a small one. Though Greg had promised that he’d have some of his relations watch her to make sure she didn’t disrupt anything. Much as Greg was quick to reassure him she wouldn’t, Mycroft still didn’t trust the woman. “I want you to stand as my best man, now that you no longer have to hide. Will you?”

“If you like,” Sherlock replied diffidently, though a flash of happiness ran through him. Having to spend the last three years relying mostly on Mycroft and Molly, Sherlock had come to a greater appreciation of his brother. Yet needling him was still amusing. At Mycroft’s eye roll, Sherlock laughed and continued, “Of course, yes. Who will be standing with Lestrade?”

“John will,” Mycroft said, a knowing smile touching his lips. “So I’d prefer if you let John know you were alive before the wedding. We don’t need him fainting or punching you in the middle of the ceremony.”

“I’m expecting the punch rather than John fainting,” Sherlock replied wryly. They spoke of Sherlock’s return while waiting for confirmation from Anthea that Moran’s body had been disposed of. As with Mycroft’s wedding, and Sherlock had to smile at this, there was hundreds of details to take care of. After all, it wasn’t easy to bring a man back from the dead, however much power Mycroft might wield. Finally, as the conversation wound down and Sherlock had drained his teacup three more times to Mycroft’s two cups, Mycroft’s phone beeped again. 

“Moran has been disposed of,” Mycroft told Sherlock, satisfaction threading his voice. “Anthea saw to it personally after verifying with fingerprints that it was indeed Moran. The ashes will be part of a landfill by this time tomorrow.”

“Good, that’s good,” Sherlock nodded and yawned. He’d suppressed them while talking, keeping himself awake through sheer determination. But now, three years worth of adrenaline and uncertainty and pain caught up to him. “I need sleep before I fall on my face. I’ll see John tomorrow. It would only make it worse, showing up looking like I’ve been beaten and left for dead.”

“Sleep well, Sherlock, I believe you have earned it,” Mycroft said, standing and offering his hand to Sherlock. After a short, confused glance, Sherlock shook it and smiled. Earned might be an understatement. “After you explain to John, we can start working on the paperwork.”

Sherlock left as quietly as he had come, leaving Mycroft in his office. The elder Holmes sat back down at his desk, pulling a clean sheet of paper free from a stack and picking up his pen again. There were so many papers to be pulled, things to fill out, that Mycroft wanted to make a list so he didn’t forget anything. Once he was done, Mycroft set everything on his into some semblance of order, despairing of ever seeing it clear again. Since he had taken this position years ago, _something_ always required his attention, reams of paper crossing his desk on a weekly basis. And as soon as he’d finished something, two more showed up to take its place. Leaving and locking his office, Mycroft headed down to the floor they dealt with paperwork; he wanted to gather these pieces himself. While Moriarty’s web was disbanded, that didn’t mean there was no cause for caution. After all, Moriarty wasn’t Sherlock’s only enemy and it would be best that no one knew, outside those few who already did and John, that Sherlock was alive.

A few days later, Mycroft and Sherlock sat in Mycroft’s living room slowly filling out what he needed to go back to his old life. There was a fading bruise on Sherlock’s cheek, announcing clearly what at least part of Sherlock’s welcome by John had been. Then again, Mycroft expected no less: John would have been furious to be left out of the loop. Sherlock scrawled his signature over the bottom of another page, flipping it to one side angrily.

“How many more of these do I have to sign?” Sherlock grumbled, taking the next paper Mycroft handed him. Mycroft waved at the stack still waiting, about half gone. “This is ridiculous. Why so much paperwork?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Mycroft shrugged, reading through the next sheet and initialing where he needed to. “Bureaucracies are run on paperwork and bringing someone back to life doesn’t happen often. I doubt this system has even been studied and refined in the last forty years.”

It took another three hours but they finally managed to finish the paperwork. Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief as he handed the last signed paper back, a smile tugging at his lips. Mycroft stacked them neatly, tapping the edges so that all the sheets lined up. It shouldn’t take long for everything to be processed and Mycroft would pull what strings he could to make sure of it. He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, studying Sherlock for a few seconds.

“It will take at most another week but you’ll be Sherlock Holmes officially again,” Mycroft explained, a smile tugging at his lips when Sherlock looked relieved. “I see your reunion with John was a little... rocky.”

“John was surprised and then angry,” Sherlock replied, touching the bruise and wincing a bit. “But he only punched me once. I probably deserved more but John always was good at dealing with what he was feeling and moving on. We talked for... hours, you know. He wanted every detail of what I’d been doing and who knew. And why he wasn’t on that list. John didn’t even flinch when I told him how many people I’d killed, all in cold blood. He understood and that was a relief in so many ways, Mycroft. I’d worried... worried that he’d see me differently, I think.”

“John was and, in many ways, is a soldier,” Mycroft mused, surprised at the level of candor Sherlock was showing. Well, he’d repay it in kind. “I know John was the one who shot that cabbie, on your first case together. I’d say that was just as much cold-blooded as what you were doing. John has always struck me as a man of eminent practicality. Protecting your own through whatever means available to you is part of that practicality. What about you, Sherlock? Will you be moving back into 221B, slipping back into every facet of your old life?”

“I want to,” Sherlock muttered, looking down at his hands and fiddling with his fingers. “John is still the same, every bit as I remember. And he wants me back. I have a _friend_ , one person who doesn’t call me a freak and think I’m dangerous. But John has carved out a life for himself out the ruins of the past. I’ll have his help still but he has that new life to live as well.”

“Nothing ever stays the same,” Mycroft replied softly. “But you’ll find a balance. John craves the danger just as much as you do. It may take time but you’ll both work it out.”

“Be that as it may, that paperwork needs processing,” Sherlock said briskly, looking up and glaring at the sheets still in Mycroft’s hands. “I’d appreciate you starting that as soon as possible. And I need to go. I want to put a few things back together before I officially come back to life.”

Mycroft nodded, suppressing a smile. He knew all about Sherlock’s homeless network as it was impossible for even Sherlock to hide completely from the array of CCTV cameras that Mycroft had access to. One too many meetings between Sherlock and one of the city’s homeless had peaked Mycroft’s curiosity so he’d planted an agent in among the population. Patience had awarded Mycroft with the answer to Sherlock’s actions: his younger brother had put together a spy network to rival Mycroft’s own and perfectly suited to Sherlock’s needs. It was impressive and Mycroft let Sherlock believe he knew nothing about it. Everyone deserved a few secrets, even if they weren’t necessarily secret to everyone.

“Goodbye, Sherlock, and stay safe,” Mycroft said, repeating the phrase for what felt like the thousandth time. And Sherlock reacted as he always did: an eyeroll followed by a quiet snort. It was a familiar dance and one that amused Mycroft. “I’ll let you know as soon as this is processed.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock nodded and got up to leave. But he wanted to get the last word in. Another step in the game they played. “Don’t go too crazy with all this wedding stuff. I don’t think the country could stand to have the British Government lose his marbles.”

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Four months later, Mycroft couldn’t believe everything was finished. He adjusted his bow tie again, staring at his reflection in the floor length mirror. The room he was in was decorated primarily in white and cream, as most of the rooms in this building were. Pushing down the flutter of nerves in his stomach, Mycroft smoothed his fingers down the white shirt and black lapels of his tuxedo. Mycroft had worn the tuxedo a few times before but never for something as important as what was waiting for him now. Another burst of butterflies and Mycroft forced his thoughts to something else. No point in dealing with nerves if he didn’t need to.

Sherlock and John had fallen back into the same life they’d had before Sherlock’s fall. Though, Sherlock was more mindful of others. Not overly mindful, but enough to highlight the change. The exact nature of their relationship was a puzzle, one Mycroft wondered about. But it didn’t matter what it was, really, at least not to Mycroft. Sherlock and John were happy and that was enough. The particulars could remain a mystery as long as they stayed that way. Sherlock was even consulting with New Scotland Yard, working primarily with Greg and sometimes with Dimmock. Donovan and Anderson kept their acidic comments and taunts to a minimum. Mycroft thought they were rather impressed with what they had thought was Sherlock’s suicide and resurrection.

Greg’s star was as high as it was before the whole debacle. His close rate was higher than every two other inspectors combined and Dimmock was the closest behind him due to Sherlock’s help. Sophia and Elizabeth had become accustomed to Mycroft and he had to admit he enjoyed spending time with them. Children had crossed his mind before but were quickly dismissed once Mycroft had decided he wasn’t going to have a relationship anymore. Greg’s girls were a bit like the daughters he’d never had. There were stumbling blocks, of course, and misunderstandings but after tempers had cooled, they were always discussed. Often, it was from friction caused by trying to fit together as a family, figuring out who fit where and who didn’t. There were still problems but they were small and easily dealt with. Mycroft was even guiding Sophia along in her studies, now that she was at university. Not pushing, per se, but offering advice and what it was really like in the positions Sophia was considering for a career. She was intelligent and quick and Mycroft thought that Sophia might make an excellent replacement for himself somewhere along in the future. Elizabeth was easier to get along with as she was more easy-going and trusting that Sophia. Plus, she and Mycroft had music in common. It became a common sight for Greg when he visited Mycroft to see Elizabeth having stopped by after school to sing while Mycroft played the piano. And, of course, Greg would join in since he left his guitar in Mycroft’s music room.

The question of homes and where to live had come up but Greg and Mycroft hadn’t reached a decision that seemed to fit. Sophia lived at her university now and visited on holiday but Elizabeth still lived with Greg. She wouldn’t leave for university for another year and a half. Their home was comfortable and familiar and Greg didn’t want to uproot Elizabeth for her last year before graduating. Mycroft was hesitant to move in and leave his own home; it was perfectly tailored for his needs and preferences. Yet he was equally hesitant to ask Greg and Elizabeth to give up their home. A tentative compromise had been reached: Greg and Mycroft divided the time between their homes equally. Perhaps once Elizabeth went to university they could come to a final decision with fewer factors to weigh in.

Mycroft smoothed his lapels again, noting his hands trembling slightly. He chuckled and had to admit that even his mind couldn’t completely get rid of the nerves. Or even ignore it all that well. A knock sounded on the door and Mycroft took a deep breath, releasing it shakily, before walking to it and opening it. Sherlock stood there, garbed in a black tuxedo similar to Mycroft’s but with a navy blue bow tie instead of black. Mycroft had caught a glimpse of John before Sherlock had hurried him into his room and knew the doctor was wearing a mirror of Sherlock’s tuxedo. No matter how he craned his neck, Mycroft hadn’t been able to see Greg before Sherlock had determinedly closed the door. John had mentioned the tradition of neither party seeing the other before the actual moment of the wedding and Sherlock had decided Mycroft and Greg were going to uphold that tradition. Mycroft hadn’t seen Greg since yesterday morning and had started to miss him before even a few hours had passed. But if Sherlock were here now, the ceremony was about to begin. Greg would be in his own room, John knocking to let him know it was time.

“Are you ready?” Sherlock asked, a smug smile crossing his face.

“I think so,” Mycroft replied. He checked his reflection one more time, straightening his bow tie even though it didn’t really need it. It was time and now the butterflies were all gone. Mycroft walked with Sherlock steadily, a curious calm overtaking him.

Greg was all nerves and jitters as he paced the small room John had shown him too. Sweat rolled down his back even though the room wasn’t warm and Greg had to take several deep breaths to try and calm himself. It wouldn’t do to show up looking like he’d just run a marathon. Greg checked his tuxedo again, tugging at the collar and black bow tie. It wasn’t tight, his nerves just tried to convince him it was. Greg could only assume Mycroft was wearing something similar as Sherlock had been adamant about following the tradition of not seeing each other before the wedding. John had even called yesterday to make sure Greg was at his home for the night rather than Mycroft’s. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so frustrating. After all, what could one look hurt? A knock sounded on the door and Greg started before shaking his head and chuckling. He was definitely on edge but it was a good edge. He was looking forward to the ceremony.

John walked in when Greg didn’t answer the door. It was taking longer than usual to calm his racing heart; all that adrenaline, Greg supposed. John grinned when he walked in though the doctor looked a little uncomfortable in his black tuxedo and navy blue bow tie. Greg grinned back and shook John’s hand. It was time, that was really the only reason John would come in. As Greg thought that, the nerves and adrenaline faded away. He was calm and collected, excited for the ceremony waiting for him outside the room. It was going to be good, everything he wanted. _Mycroft_ was everything he wanted. Squaring his shoulders, Greg nodded at John.

“It’s time, isn’t it?” Greg asked, just to make sure.

“Yes. You ready for this, Greg?” John replied, gesturing for Greg to follow him from the room. There was no sign of Mycroft in the hallway and Greg could only assume he’d already gone or was still in his room. They’d decided that they would enter the larger room at the same time and meet together in front of the minister.

“I really think I am,” Greg said, smile crossing his face. “Let’s go.”

John led the way down the hallway and to the door on the right side of the larger room. Mycroft would walk in from the left, preceded by Sherlock. Murmuring voices and shuffling feet bled through the door Greg stopped in front of. The ceremony was small but there were enough people in there to be heard clearly. John smiled and nodded at Greg one last time before slipping through the door. The glimpse Greg had through it showed Sherlock coming in from the opposite door. Still no sign of Mycroft and Greg reminded himself to be patient. He would see Mycroft in just a few minutes.

About a minute after the door closed, a hush fell over the people inside and music started playing. Greg felt a tender smile tug at his lips as he recognized the piece; it was the one Mycroft had written for him. But it was different this time. Even Greg hadn’t heard the changes yet as Mycroft had been extremely secretive. Mycroft had promised, though, that Greg would know when to walk through the door. It would be unmistakable. The song rolled through the door, reaching the end of what Greg had heard before. Then, the dancing harmony changed. It grew firmer, steadier and matched itself to the main melody. That must be the signal, the way Greg would know to walk in. Greg took one last deep breath and opened the door. His eyes met Mycroft’s and they stopped, just for a moment. Love and joy passed between them before a loud chord caused both to start walking forward again. Both melodies twined around each other, complementing while being so very different. It was himself and Mycroft, Greg realized as they both reached the minister who would be marrying them. The piece ended on a triumphant flourish, somehow portraying overwhelming happiness and contentment. Greg took Mycroft’s hand as the minister started speaking.

The ceremony was simple and heartfelt. Sherlock and John held the little boxes that contained the wedding rings. When the time came for them, the boxes were handed over and Greg slipped out the ring he’d bought for Mycroft. After his portion of the vows, Greg slid it onto Mycroft’s hand and beamed. Mycroft spoke his own vows and pulled the ring out of the box. Greg had seen it once before, a simple golden band. But now, it was carved to match the one Greg had bought, the two lines twining sinuously together. Mycroft slipped it onto Greg’s finger and then curled their hands together. With the final words, they smiled at each other and pressed their lips together. The kiss was quick but full of love and then they turned to the cheers and applause of family and friends. It was done and it was wonderful.

At the reception, Sherlock found himself standing in a corner and watching as people danced, talked, or congratulated Mycroft and Greg. This was the ending he’d hoped for, what he had planned when he first realized what caring was _really_ like. How it strengthened you if it were the right person. There was a happiness in Mycroft’s eyes now as he sat with his shoulders strong and firm. The sadness, the shadow, was gone and only light shone in his eyes whenever he looked at Greg. It was a plan well executed and Sherlock was justly proud of it. The only possible dark spot was Anne Ford, though John had tried to explain the sentiment behind her invitation.

“Do I know you?” a voice asked quietly from Sherlock’s left. He looked quickly and saw that it was Anne, standing almost as if thought of her had summoned her. Sherlock went through the catalogue of items he used on the case. It could only be the height, which she must have judged the one time she saw him. That night Sherlock had dragged Greg to the still nameless guy’s flat had been the only time she’d seen him and Sherlock had looked completely different. Sherlock straightened from his slouched lean and stared down his nose at Anne. He really didn’t like her.

“I am Sherlock Holmes, ma’am. I believe you made it a point to avoid me when I worked with your husband,” Sherlock said coldly. Anne’s reaction was everything Sherlock could have hoped for and he smirked as she glared at him. She didn’t dare provoke him or start a scene at the reception, not and spoil the night. But Anne could and did give Sherlock her coldest glare as she trembled with a barely held fury.

“I blame you!” she hissed at him.

“As well you should,” Sherlock murmured calmly then turned to look at the newly married couple. “This was all my plan, you know. You played right into it without even knowing it.”

That startled Anne into shocked silence. Her mouth worked slowly, words stuck behind the wall of surprise. But before Anne could think of something to say, one of Gregory’s family was at her side, leading Anne away from him. Sherlock had noted the three family members who’d kept a close eye on Anne through the ceremony and the reception so far. Though he didn’t know how they’d decided, one always seemed on hand whenever Anne seemed to be about to do something regrettable. Anne faded from his mind quickly as Sherlock deleted all his knowledge about her. He no longer had use for any of it. 

His eyes drifted back to his brothers. It was odd to think with the plural yet Greg was indeed his brother. Mycroft had pulled Greg onto the dance floor, the same song that had played during their walk to the other now playing softly on the speakers. Mycroft was smiling and whispering in Greg’s ear, guiding him through the steps of what Sherlock recognized as a Viennese Waltz. Though he had given them crystal, his actual wedding present to his brother was the man in his arms. Now two of the three men he cared most about in the world had their own happiness. Not to mention the convenience for Sherlock when it came to cases. 

A small movement attracted his attention. Across the room, Mrs. Holmes looked at him and then at the participants of the little drama Sherlock had arranged so carefully. He held his breath until she raised her glass very slightly in his direction and returned to conversation with her sister.  
Well, Sherlock could never hide anything from his mother. After all, she had been the one to give him the idea in the first place. It had been done so smoothly that it had taken Sherlock an almost embarrassingly long time to realize what she had done. But where Mycroft and Sherlock were masters at their craft, Mrs. Holmes was the expert tactician who had taught her sons everything she knew. Even if they were barely starting school before learning most of it.

“So, how do you enjoy being Gregory Lestrade-Holmes?” Mycroft asked as they moved across the dance floor.

“I’m finding that I rather like it,” Greg replied, laughing as he pressed his forehead to Mycroft’s for a moment. “What about you? How does Mycroft Lestrade-Holmes sound to you?”

“Like something I didn’t know I craved until I heard it,” Mycroft replied, laughing with Greg and at the whimsical cant of his words. “You have no idea how grateful I am for all this, Greg. You’ve lifted a weight from my shoulders and I couldn’t love you more for it.”

“I love you, Mycroft,” Greg whispered, squeezing Mycroft’s hand. “You’ve done the same for me. You know, we may have to send Sherlock a thank you gift.”

“Oh? Why is that?” Mycroft asked curiously. The music ended and he captured Greg’s lips in a tender kiss before Greg could answer. To the sound of clapping and cheers, they walked back to their table and sat down. Sophia and Elizabeth sat on either side of them and both beamed at everyone. They didn’t call Mycroft dad nor did Mycroft expect them to. But they had all formed a close bond and it worked for them.

“He did all of this,” Greg explained quietly in between family and friends coming up to congratulate them. “It was his plan, perhaps even as far as us getting married. He cares about you, Mycroft, more than he lets on. And I am thankful he did plan it. It’s made me the happiest I’ve been in a long time.”

“Then we’ll give him the most convoluted case either of us can find,” Mycroft laughed once he got over the shock. Trust Sherlock to meddle exactly where he wasn’t wanted. But Mycroft had to admit that perhaps it was where he was needed. To be honest, Mycroft wouldn’t have had it any other way. He belonged here, with his family. _All_ of his family.


End file.
